


To Ride in Search

by S_EER (Fritiriel)



Series: The Golden Queen [4]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, Dragons, Drama, Established Relationship, M/M, Novel, Pern, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 152,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3193538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/S_EER
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…this is what we fight for…_

The Weyr was almost quiet, now. All that could be done had been done. The day’s most frantic battles—in the air and on the ground—were ended, lost or won.

Many sat at table still, riders and weyrfolk alike, drinking a determined way toward forgetfulness with the potent mixture that was mostly but not all wine. Master Demory prepared it only when there was need—and tonight there was great need. 

Sea'n had tried a cup but realized, less than halfway through, that he disliked the muzziness it brought. He preferred to remain in control of his sorrow. Leaving the drinking to those whose need was clearly far greater than his own, he got up and left the caverns. 

Out into the darkness he wandered, far out beyond the Weyr, halting only when he came to the brink of a small pool set almost within a cavern of its own. The flow that fed it dripped steadily from the rocks above that protected its fringe of almost hidden bushes. The air here was cool and scented with freshness. So unlike—

He clamped down hard upon the thought and lightly ran his hand along the nearest branch. A sudden breeze shivered the leaves, and they were damp and soft beneath his fingers—whole and smooth and unmarred, save here and there by the nibble of some insect. 

_This is what we fight for_ , he thought, _that men and beasts and even the smallest insect, leaf and flower may live and grow in peace._

 _Sea'n_? Sammath’s voice was thin with mourning, still.

 _Soon, my friend._ He did not yet wish to be flown to their weyr, far up toward the rim of the Bowl. He was unsure quite what it was that he wanted. To talk with S'ttan would have been best, but he had seen S'ttan weyred already, well-coated in numbweed. On him and on Zendreth, the Threadscore was hurt enough but would fully heal, given time. S'ttan’s induced sleep was hopefully undisturbed by the cruel images that flickered, constant and unwelcome, through Sea'n’s mind.

 _Surely Gl'stat had_ realized _—And why, in the name of the First Egg,_ why _had he not _heeded_ —?_

Sea'n shuddered, knowing from Sammath that Celenarth had not at all wanted to lead Igen’s dragons forward into almost certain—

A dead branch snapped suddenly beneath his foot and somewhere ahead, among the shadowed leaves, there was quiet shuffling and then a loud sniff.

‘I’m—I’m all right,’ said a voice, and Sea'n heard the sound of a nose being blown. ‘N-nothing to worry ab-about, truly there isn’t. G-go on b-back, I shall b-be there in a little w-while—’ but the brave words cracked on a choke of her breath.

‘Abelia?’ As she turned to meet him, the two moons lit her downcast face—the coil of nut-brown hair a weight at her nape—and her still-shaking shoulders.

Journeywoman Abelia was one of three such healers, recently appointed assistants to Master Demory. A full Mastership in the treatment of dragon injuries was not required of every healer, of course, for there were many more holds than Weyrs; many more people than dragons to need healing. 

Only the very best of the journeymen were chosen for service in the Weyrs—and then only those who showed an empathy with dragons just short of a point at which they might become riders themselves—which did, occasionally, happen. Even those who qualified in theory, however, sometimes proved unable for the realities of Threadscore, once met. What was a rare hazard in the holds, with holder and crafter alike sheltered safe through every Fall, was an ever-present danger for dragon and rider alike. 

Abelia was young to have attained journey-level knots, keen and almost overly eager to learn. Sea'n had idly watched as weyrling F'del—bursting with pride that Duath should be selected to represent dragonkind—displayed his green for a detailed lesson in structure and form. Abelia outshone her fellows in answers to Demory’s questions then, and also, Sea'n thought, in her rapport with Duath and her rider when her turn came to translate theory into practical application. Knowledge was one thing, however. Experience often proved to be quite another.

Today’s had been one of her earliest encounters with the realities of Fall. And this Fall had proved more disastrous than most seasoned riders could recall, its terrors unfolded so fully and so forcibly that they too were shaken. It came as no surprise to Sea'n that Abelia may need to grieve out here in the quiet darkness.

‘B-bronze-rider Sea'n! I—I thought you were Josta, come looking for me.’

‘Hardly!’ 

In the darkness, she could not see the roll of his eyes but she must have heard the rueful note for she managed a weak giggle. 

Josta was at least two handspans taller than Sea'n—she was the biggest female in the entire Weyr, and very maternal. Tressik, her spouse, was an even larger man. Like him she was a baker, her hand with dough unbeatable, so that the breads of Igen Weyr were famed among riders. Tressik had a wide variety of slyly sidelong ways in which to praise her baking skills—and in particular her superior kneading abilities—that everyone knew had to do with matters far more personal than her handling of _barm_ -raised goods.

‘You should not be out here alone, so far from the Weyr, Abelia.’

‘It’s—I shall return soon. I just need a few moments in the dark and the quiet, but please, don’t worry.’

Not worrying would never be one of Sea'n’s strengths. ‘I think it may help to talk about it,’ he offered.

‘No, I—’ her breath caught.

‘I’d like to help if I can,’ he said, and put out a gentle hand to her shoulder. 

Another choked sigh turned into a deep sob, and Abelia slowly leaned into him, letting go the tight hold she’d tried to keep on her sorrow—and come close to succeeding. But she shuddered now, words and tears tumbling suddenly over each other as she put words at last to the too-vivid recollections that—as Sea'n knew only too well—her mind would not let her escape. 

‘It’s—I just—I’ve never had to assist with—I’d never _seen_ a—an amputation before, Sea'n! Not on a live body, with all the—though we learned the theory, of course. It’s so much—so very _much_ worse than you—than _I_ —expected. It’s—it’s _terrible_! And even though we tried—we tried, Sea'n, really we did! We tried everything we knew, and Master Demory was as quick and as clean as anyone could ever be—he _tried_ , we _all_ did, but—but the Thread had burrowed deep inside and—and Namelie died and her dragon—’

‘Ortelith,’ Sea'n supplied sadly. Namelie and green Ortelith had been the first of the day’s fatalities. The first of far too many, though—thankfully—they had not known it, at the time.

‘Ortelith went between and we didn’t dare stop—not even for the smallest while. There just wasn’t _time_ to mourn with the dragons, or comfort the hatchlings—they were wailing so loud and so sadly, even though they’re supposed to be too young to truly understand. There were just—there were injured dragons dropping from the air all around us—the Bowl was _crowded_ with them. 

Her eyes streaming tears now, she glanced up as if Sea'n might not believe her, but he could imagine it all too well. Dragons and riders he knew and admired had died there, today.

‘So many riders and their dragons needing our help, so many— _too_ many all at once, and all of them desperate for healing—but there simply weren’t _enough_ of us! The weyrfolk were there of course, every one, and _still_ we were not enough. We had to call on the very youngest weyrlings to help, setting them to spread numbweed when—when there was nothing more to be done than to ease a rider’s passing. It was cruel to use them so, and yet every pair of hands with any skill whatever was needed elsewhere, for those who might yet be saved.’ 

Her telling came faster—sharper and more frenzied, for all that it was choked out by sobs into Sea'n’s chest now. She was shivering within the circle of his arms—as much the cold of delayed shock as reaction to the day’s many tragedies. Images already seared, all too fresh and painful, across Sea'n’s mind wove inexorably with Abelia’s words as he held her close and listened.

‘Th—there were riders everywhere, screaming for help for their dragons, and then—and then in the most terrible agony when a dragon went suddenly _between_ because it was too badly hurt to stay. And with every one that went, the keen was sharper and deeper inside until I couldn’t _think_ for it in my head, but I had—we _all_ had to keep going, keep _trying_! There was so much pain and noise everywhere, and—and the _smell_ , Sea'n! The smell of burning and b-blood and—and of _death…_ ’ Memory slipped inexorably between the tightly drawn breaths, now, and she dissolved at the last to an uncontrollable weeping.

‘Shhh!’ Sea'n held her close, rocking her to and fro for a long time until she had cried herself out. His own tears fell hot and silent, lost amid the soft fall of her hair. 

‘I—I’m sorry,’ she said at length, snuffling against his chest. ‘I should not—’

‘Do not apologize for weeping, Abelia.’ said Sea'n. ‘We must all grieve for those we have lost today, and each of us responds to death in our own way. Today’s Fall was the worst any _rider_ here has met, let alone a new-fledged healer with but little experience of Threadscore. You should not be ashamed of your shock, or your fear. It is a thing truly to be feared.’ He shook his head, staring over her head into the darkness. 

‘It is not so very long since the first time I faced Thread, as a full rider. We thought we were so brave, as weyrlings, when we flew to bring firestone to the fighting dragons. We really believed we were part of the fight already—as of course we were, a little. But only when you’ve flown as one with the wings can you _truly_ know what it means to face Thread. You understand, then, just how much you were protected—sheltered from the havoc and the danger, as much as may be, by riders older, braver and at far more risk than you. When finally you have your own place in the Weyr’s battle against Thread, _you_ must protect the youngsters who risk their young lives to bring the stone—and then there is nothing at all between you and what you saw today, Abelia. Nothing but your dragon’s skill and his bravery.’ 

Sea'n was silent then, speaking only to Sammath, thanking him yet again for the prowess that had kept them from almost certain injury more than once today. That had kept them whole when others were stricken down, safe and able to fight on until the end of Fall. Sammath flooded his mind with reassurance and love, and the still-shaking girl was almost forgotten as rider and dragon strengthened each other against the danger that was past—against that which would come again and again through the many long turns of their future.

Abelia drew a deep breath and seemed to gather herself together. ‘But you are brave too, Sea'n,’ she said. ‘You’re there with your dragon, directing him, supporting him, feeding him the stone. I am so glad that I was never Searched—I don’t have that sort of courage.’ Her confession was whispered in his shirt.

‘It is a rider’s purpose in life—and his or her dragon’s—to fight Thread, Abelia, but it is more desperate and far less heroic than you think. And today—’ he paused.

Loyalty forbade that he should criticize aloud, but Weyrleader Gl'stat had obviously not been in full control of the flight, today, of his very last flight. Even a new-fledged rider could see that Fall had been _wrong_ , somehow—that a much-practiced strategy had urgently demanded decisive correction it did not receive. Bronze Celenarth—along with too many more of Igen’s dragons and their riders—had paid full price for his rider’s failure of flexibility, of true leadership. 

D'trel and Menogeth had seen the need and taken command, regrouping the wings, doing what must be done to keep disorganized but uninjured riders in the air. Under his direction, all who could fought desperately on, destroying Thread, fulfilling their purpose in life, even as fellow riders—friend and weyrmate alike—burned and died around them. 

After all was over, D'trel accepted leadership of the Weyr from Crista, interim, until Allibeth should rise again. Sea'n thought him a far better leader, judging by the disciplined formation of the wing he led, no less than by his skill today in wrenching what could be saved from what might have become complete disaster. Time and Thread alone would fully prove his belief in his own wing-leader.

‘—today was not good, but nor was it something that happens often, thank the Egg. Very few Falls in our history have brought so much injury and death at one time. And you do have courage, Abelia. It took courage to face what you saw today and yet to work on—healing those you might and easing the way to death for those whom you could not,’ Sea'n finished quietly.

Abelia looked up then, her lashes still tear-tangled, and he knew the moons must clearly light the tracks of his own more silent grief. 

‘Sea'n?’ She tipped her head, hesitant but inviting. Sea'n brought up one hand to curve around her cheek, and he kissed her.

 _Remember always, should Fall go amiss, to take comfort in another,_ R'bant advised his senior weyrlings, before ever they themselves must rise to fight Thread. _Another rider or any willing body that responds to yours. You need then to recognize what it is for which we risk our lives and our dragons, every single time we fight. For the love of each other, of the many we shall never know as well as those we do. For life itself—the life of our world._

 _Yes,_ Sea'n thought into the kiss, _this is as much worth the fighting for as any tree or leaf—and more!_

In a while, Sammath came down at his call, and together they brought Abelia to their weyr so high above the Bowl. It was small and almost impersonal still, for there was room within for little more than Sea'n’s bed of furs, and a chest to hold his sparse belongings. It was scarce a home at all, with scant space to entertain more friends than one, beyond the ledge that barely held a still-growing dragon. 

It had been theirs for only a few handfuls of sevendays, since the bronze riders of Darith’s clutch were awarded their wings at last, and Sea'n took his proud place amongst D'trel’s riders. Given the day’s happenings, of course, there would be many vacant—but he would not think on that.

Tonight, it needed nothing more. Abelia was warm and very willing, and if Sea'n hurt her unknowing, she readily forgave, and slept in his arms when all was done. 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	2. Part One - Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…as a stranger ’prentice he could wander quite unchallenged…_

‘Whoever founded and named this place had a sense of humor as well as a self-sacrificial streak,’ Sea'n said, his breath close and warm against Elijah’s cheek as Sammath and his fellow dragons spiraled down toward The World’s End.

The main hold stood at the neck of the largest of three valleys, a compact and sturdy collection of stone buildings that huddled close beneath the out-thrust shelter of a cliff, with narrow trails winding out to connect with each small cluster of outlying cots, one with another. Only one track was broad—topped with stone, crushed and compacted to take the sturdy trade wagons that made the occasional journey to other places, where a living was more easily to be had. 

The soil looked to be rich enough in the deep valley bottoms, but there were many more by far of the higher fields that looked poor even from the air, dusted gray by the underlying stone. Cultivation would be difficult there, and crops all too thin for the labor that any harvest must entail. The outlying barns were sited to provide both Threadfall shelter and storage of winter feed for livestock—for the woolies that could wrest their living from such sparse greenery, to feed and clothe the population. 

What grazed or grew or could be made within the boundaries of The World’s End Hold must support its inhabitants almost entirely, for the nearest gather was many, many klicks away. Only seldom would a trader train range so far aside from the regular trade routes, for the little profit to be made here. 

‘Perhaps such hardship may actually have produced a possibility or two?’ Elijah suggested over his shoulder as Sammath flew low toward landing. Sea'n’s lips brushed his weyrmate’s cheek now, and his arms tightened around him.

‘Sea'n! I am a nervous candidate snatched from my apprenticeship, not your prospective bedmate!’ He waggled the shoulder that sported an apprentice healer’s knots, their purple finely twisted into Telgar’s black and white.

‘Not?’ asked Sea'n, his voice warm and sultry despite the cold air that swirled around them.

‘No, and I’ll thank you, bronze-rider, to keep your hands to yourself!’ Elijah tried for the tone Candessa used when one of the older riders teased too far, but somewhat spoiled the effect with a snorted laugh. Then the slow and deliberate direction of those hands suddenly hitched his breath, and his head fell back onto Sea'n’s shoulder. ‘Sea'n!’ he said, part admonition, mostly desire. 

‘Later, perhaps?’ Sea'n said, relenting and lacing his fingers instead around Elijah’s waist. 

Elijah wriggled backwards against him. Sharing a single neck-ridge on Sammath was extremely cozy, and the slightest movement could be both tease and rough caress. ‘Later, for sure!’ he agreed, and grinned at Sea'n’s indrawn breath and Sammath’s mental snort as the bronze brought them carefully to land on the wide paved area before the hold doors.

A fine, warm and Threadfree day had sent parties of riders on Search throughout the lands that looked to Telgar for protection. Frideth’s clutch was hardening rapidly on the Sands, watched over attentively by Elijah’s queen. It was against all precedent for him to Search, of course, but his own Impression had flouted almost every rule of protocol there was, beginning with the fact that queens were supposed to be Impressed—always _had_ been Impressed—by female riders. Elijah was never a candidate at all. 

An apprentice destined for the Harper Hall, he would not even have been present at Telgar Weyr that day—if ever—but for a Fort blue-rider’s desire to take in a Hatching while on conveyance duty. Conireth’s hatchling daughter had rejected every female, on or off the Ground, in Elijah’s favor. And now that she had eggs of her own, sired by Sea'n’s bronze Sammath, Elijah was determined none of them would lack the right candidate if he had anything to do with the matter. 

Holder Forell himself strode out to greet the Search party. Judged on strength and vigor, he was more than equal to the wresting of a fair living for his people from these unpromising lands. That he held to the proper ways was as clear in the barren space around the hold—not a scrap of greenery to feed stray Thread and give strength enough for it to burrow here, so close to holdfolk or sheltered stock—as by his true welcome to Sea'n and his riders. The thin man in blue at his side must be the younger brother, Cerne—a journeyman of the harper craft and recently returned to the hold of his birth. 

Regardless of distance from the Weyr, there should be no hostility to dragonriders here, veiled or otherwise, no matter how outrageously Pr'len behaved. To be fair, the green rider could be a distinct asset on Search despite the occasional flirt, for between them Litanith and he had the gift for discovering candidates who would Impress brown or blue. And he no longer flirted at Sea'n—much—so Elijah was happy enough to have him along.

There were only occasional huddles of cot and barn, stone-built along the lower slopes of the hills that confined World’s End’s three broad valleys. Most of the folk lived in and worked from the main hold. Such a compact holding would not require long Searching from five dragons and their riders—four, if one allowed Sea'n the time he must spend with the holder in discussion of crop protection, the effectiveness or otherwise of his ground crews and any extension he may propose to those lands that must be especially well-guarded. 

Forell insisted they should come into the hold for refreshment before they began, but for all his hospitality, it was easy to see in him already, the worry that a much-needed member of this close-knit community may be taken from them. 

As always now, on Search, Elijah lingered by Sammath—the way a mere candidate should, perhaps, while the honored guests were ushered inside. But, as a stranger ’prentice he could wander quite unchallenged, when he seemed both young and just as bemused by dragons and their riders as any who dwelt here in this high mountain valley. 

And, as ever, at least half those presently within had paused their work to come look as the dragons glided in to land. The timid only stared and exclaimed from unshuttered windows; the braver and more curious—always with a sprinkling of small boys—drew closer, peeping through arches and doorways, startling at the whoosh of air as the five huge beasts back-winged one by one to settle before the hold. 

Once their vast size became apparent, however, bravery almost always gave way to thoughts of self-preservation, and the remaining watchers retired—some with more haste than dignity.

Elijah had noticed amongst the many, a single streak of gray-white that lingered still as others began to scatter. A further, almost casual glance proved the gray-white to be a grubby apron, well-spattered with both grease and grime, that swathed one of the larger boys from top to toes. Little more than a straggle of dirty blond hair seemed to poke from above it, the face all but hidden. 

Where others withdrew, this lad pushed back his hair to reveal wide eyes, and left his vantage point—a corner that must surely lead to the hold kitchens, judging from the aroma of roasting meat that came on the breeze from that direction—to come closer. He may cling to the wall at his back, but still he would see the dragons. Elijah remembered the uses of hair as a shield, and resolved to make his start there. One of the kitchen folk, at least, had more of curiosity than cowardice about him.

A voice bellowed in sudden anger, and the boy turned and ran to answer the summons. A cry of pain was quickly stifled but still it reached Elijah’s ears.

 _Seek out that one,_ advised Sammath, and Elijah set off toward the sound, rounding the corner and following his nose to a door that stood wide open. 

Inside were many more aproned figures, all busily tending great caldrons or cleaning roots and greens for the hold meal to come. One man alone sprawled at his ease amid such industry, in a chair at the long central table. He too wore a mostly white apron, but appeared to have granted himself a purely supervisory role. This must surely be the cook, though his stringy shape was a rank betrayal of his calling. 

Elijah very much doubted that the bottle of rough spirit before him was an ingredient of any dish being prepared here. As he entered, he heard one of the root-parers address the man most deferentially with a remark about the dragons, calling him Pinsent. 

In reply he merely growled, and drank from his bottle.

 _By the hearth_ , said Sammath, seeing with Elijah’s eyes.

A hunched shape was silhouetted against the hearth-fire, tending the spitted carcass that rotated before the flames. Elijah recognized at once the boy who had lingered. In one hand he held a ladle for basting with the juices that dripped into a long tray beneath; with the other he turned the crank that kept the meat from scorching.

_Sammath, are you sure? He is so…_

_Cowed? Indeed. But he has a spark of strong courage that he keeps buried deep within. It needs only the tending to make a brave rider of him._

_Very well. You are the one who knows these things._

Elijah ignored the cook and went instead to the boy who ducked a little further into himself at his approach. Every eye in the room was upon them as he said, without preamble, ‘Bronze Sammath says you should come to the Weyr and stand before Frideth’s eggs.’

The boy ceased his basting and gaped at Elijah. Besides a bright red ear that must be smarting still from the blow Elijah had heard him protest, there was a bruise yellowing on his cheek. Tear tracks smeared down through the layers of grease and dirt, and he looked to have no more than fourteen turns. 

‘ _Me_?’ he said, unconsciously standing straighter now. ‘A _dragon_ said that about _me_? Are you sure?’

‘That he said it of you, yes, but for the rest, no,’ Elijah said, with absolute honesty. ‘Sammath is sure, and that is what matters!’

‘But, _may_ I come?’ The boy looked uncertainly at his taskmaster.

Pinsent attempted to intervene now, rising from his seat to begin a vociferous complaint at the impending loss of a motherless drudge. One whose paramount value to the hold, it seemed, lay in his ability to baste a spit-turned roast to perfection. 

Like his queen, Elijah would acknowledge only those whom he thought worth the while. This man deserved no such courtesy. 'If you wish to come, _he_ has no say in the matter,’ he said, ignoring the objection and presenting his back to the cook. ‘Do you have parents or are you fostered?’ The boy shook his head. ‘Neither? Then it is for you alone to decide.'

A wide grin almost split the lad’s face in two. He stood with more confidence and was suddenly older than he had looked. ‘I shall come!’ he said, stripping off his once-white apron and laying it carefully on the nearest surface for whoever might take his place.

‘Now, you just hold hard a minute!’ The cook snaked out a hand. Elijah thought at first it may be meant for him, but at the last moment Pinsent appeared to think better of it, and instead moved to detain his drudge. ‘Ain’t no ’prentice lad telling _me_ what…’ 

Belligerence faltered as Elijah turned to face him, arms folded across his chest. He spoke not a word but flicked his gaze from the thin-fingered grasp on the boy’s shoulder to the man’s face, silently daring his denial of such an opportunity for the lad. Pinsent may not have the least idea who Elijah was in reality, but he knew steely authority when he met it, even in a slip of a healer apprentice. His grip slackened and the boy wriggled easily from beneath his hand.

‘If he wishes to accept the invitation to stand before my—before the queen’s clutch at Telgar, then his right is absolute,’ Elijah said firmly then, a flash of blue fire in his eyes to rival the flames at which the lad fulfilled his duties.

He turned back to the boy with a reassuring smile. ‘What is your name?’ 

‘Please, I’m called Olerin.’

‘Do you have much to bring with you, Olerin?’

He looked troubled. ‘I—no, not a lot. There’s my Highday shirt and trous, though they’re a bit tight on me now,’ he offered shyly. ‘And I have my whistle and my alleys, and—and my father’s shoulder knots, that my mother gave me just—just before she died.’

‘Leave the clothes,’ said Elijah, ‘Candessa will provide. Gather everything that is precious to you and go wait by bronze Sammath until I come. He likes to have his headknobs scratched,’ he suggested with a reassuring smile.

‘I—I may touch him? He will _let_ me?’ 

‘If you are to ride a dragon of your own, you will need to know how to pet him. Dragons like to _feel_ how much you love them.’ 

‘A dragon of my _own_ …’ Wonder was clear in Olerin’s voice as he hurried off to collect his few possessions—to knot together the ends of his life at World’s End Hold and bring them to a new beginning in Telgar Weyr.

Elijah slowly looked around, taking in all the kitchen had to tell. His gaze lingered longest on the almost empty bottle. Then, with a glare at the cook, he stalked out, suspecting that Forell had not yet appointed a headwoman to supervise the domestic arrangements of the hold. Less than half a turn had passed since his spouse died in childbirth, so the sweep-rider reported, and perhaps the holder assumed that merely _edible_ meals, set out on the hold tables, equaled a well-run kitchen. Elijah could easily forgive the oversight if he were still grieving such a loss. 

He shivered then.

 _Elijah? What is it?_ Sammath’s instant concern was some comfort, but…

 _Just a wherry, walking my bones,_ Elijah answered, but the feeling of disquiet would not entirely leave him. He could find no reason for it, only a vague foreboding at the thought of such grief. 

A sudden loud chatter from the root-parers followed him out into the yard, and he realized they had seen enough to guess he was far other than he seemed. Despite the pretence of healer shoulder knots, Elijah had as good as told them that Sammath spoke to him—and he had not exactly behaved like a meek apprentice-turned-candidate, had he? 

And the cook had backed away from him, daring neither an attempt to stop him from claiming the boy, nor even to hush his drudges’ gossip. As well for him, with Sammath on guard. Elijah passed a message through the bronze to Sea'n, to find a tactful way of enlightening Forell as to his cook’s drinking habits. 

But what really mattered was the joy on the boy’s face to escape this life, and the certainty Elijah too had begun to feel—that here may indeed be a worthy rider for yet one more of the eggs now hardening on the sands of Telgar’s Hatching Ground.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…just a—a feeling…_

‘Tell me again why we’ve come to Long Gorge Hold. I thought we were slated to search that string of smaller holds along the Narlis plain, and C'ter’s group was coming here,’ Sea'n said in Elijah’s ear, when Sammath brought them out of _between_.

Far below them now lay the precipitous gorge that split the Hold’s wide fertile plateau so decisively in two. This comprehensive aerial view made it quite clear that it should more logically have been two separate holds—and to all intents it was so. 

Since the days of its founding, however, when twin brothers had each carved a living from opposite sides of the chasm that split apart the land for klicks from south to north, the inhabitants had together designated themselves Long Gorge Hold, East or West. It was numbered as a single hold on the roll of lands that looked to Telgar Weyr for protection from Thread.

‘It’s odd, you know,’ Elijah said, looking down. ‘I’ve never felt the least bit scared of flying so high in the air—not even on Andeloth, that first time. But the mere _thought_ of walking across that bridge makes my insides clench up and my knees feel really, _really_ weird!’

‘I know just what you mean!’ Sea'n said, clamping his own affected knees tight to Sammath’s neck and clutching Elijah even closer, safety harness or no.

The bridge in question was constructed of ropes and timber. It traversed the massive rent just where the gorge was at its narrowest—which was still quite wide enough for Sammath to have glided easily between its walls. Even looking down on it from such a height, it seemed a sturdy enough structure. 

The main supporting ropes were strung between pairs of tall straight pollards planted at either side. They must themselves be nearly as thick as young tree trunks, thought Sea'n. Others of a narrower gauge hung above the wooden footway at waist and at head height. Finer still were those that formed the lattices between, ensuring that even the most heedless of those who crossed could not fall from its pathway, and plunge helplessly to a certain death on the rocky riverbed, far below. 

From above, however, you could see the entire walkway shifting slightly in the day’s stiff breeze. It made the crossing of it seem a distinctly perilous venture. Maybe it was also the knowing that, instead of the solidly comforting bulk of a bronze dragon between you and the distant ground, there would be little more than a fingerspan or two of rough planking and a cat’s cradle of cordage.

The hold buildings were set well back from either edge of the gorge, in the centre of each one’s pasturage and plow-land. From the air, their well-worn routes were clearly visible. A narrow one, for travel afoot, linked the two half-holds via the aerial bridge. Wider tracks of beaten earth threaded each holding like the veins of a leaf. They carried the laden wagons of hay and fodder crops from outlying field to the barns—stone-built, close to home and necessary also for the shelter of livestock from Thread. More importantly, they brought the stone itself—readily quarried from the vast, cross-wise seam that made holding possible here at all. 

The broadest track was topped with chipped stone, for better footing in wet weather, for it led outward from the heart of each hold, its one connection to the wider world. All journeys must begin or end, here—down from the richly fertile fields of the high plateau onto the plain; to craft-hall, hold or gather, or rising up again to meet the matching half of Long Gorge Hold.

However wary a dragonrider may be of the footbridge, it was clearly in constant use. Its well-trodden path said most holdfolk, at least, were as untroubled by this way of crossing from hold to hold as Sea'n was by flying Sammath from one side of Pern to the other. Certainly the insect-like figure now speeding along its length seemed to have no qualms whatever at doing so. Sea'n suspected its haste may be in the taking of a message about their own impending visit.

‘Something tells me you’re avoiding my question,’ he said, as Sammath circled above the twin holds, waiting to be directed in to land. ‘Why _are_ we searching here instead of across the Narlis plain?’

‘I don’t really know.’ Elijah’s voice was puzzled. ‘It was just a feeling I had when I heard the list of assignments for the day. C'ter said he didn’t mind where his group went so here we are.’

‘And does your _feeling_ tell you on which side we should begin?’

‘That one,’ Elijah said at once, pointing to the westward hold. ‘But I still have not the least idea why!’ 

Sammath immediately angled his flight for a landing there, the other members of their Search party—Litanith, Jadeth, Benareth, Maruth and their riders—swooping after him.

A small group of weyrlings and their dragons had accompanied them from Telgar. They veered off now, dispatched under Sammath’s instruction to fly straight all around the boundaries of the hold. It was good practice for a rider to survey the lands he or she must one day protect, and a plateau’s perimeter was easy to distinguish from the air. Too, it was not an overly large area, and a judicious amount of straight flying would strengthen young dragon wings. 

The weyrlings set off northward to begin their task, and it was easy to see the excitement in the riders and their dragons, both. Sea'n had given charge of the group to V'diren. He judged the lad to have the makings of a wing-leader one day, and the sooner he got into the habit of thinking not only for himself but for his riders, the better. 

Sammath had instilled into Romiroth and the others a clear picture of a safe and easy place to land, at the mid point of their sweep. The promise of a noontime meal, out there alone—bread and meat and a skin of watered wine that Candessa had put up for them—was as good for weyrling morale as the illusion of freedom from their elders’ stern gaze for an hour or two. They were not to know how closely their flight would be monitored by all five adult dragons.

‘So,’ Sea'n said, returning to his point, ‘this feeling—does it have anything to do with the finding of a potential queen-rider? You brought Ciala to the Weyr already—if you discover a rival for her here, there’ll be a lot of folk confused as to where to place their marks!’

‘I’m not sure—in fact, I don’t really think it has anything to do with Search at all. It’s just a—a _feeling_.’

Sea'n laughed and nuzzled between Elijah’s jacket and his helmet, to find and kiss the stretch of soft skin beneath his ear, as Sammath brought them down to land before the hold.

They had flown Search together often enough now for it to be fixed custom that Elijah should linger by the dragons, while Sea'n led his riders into the hold where the courtesies of welcome would be properly observed. Sea'n still could not like leaving him there, but Elijah insisted, and Sea'n had to admit that these clandestine explorations had discovered more than one candidate already.

He knew quite well that Elijah was never truly alone, with Sammath constantly alert to whatever may occur around him. In fact, Elijah gave as much credit to Sammath for his success as he accepted for himself. Too, five searchers must always be better than four, when Sea'n, as leader of the party, was often kept busy with the holder’s concerns—his thanks, his complaints or his suggestions, according to each man’s individual character.

His riders would search by twos—one pair returning to their dragons to sweep-ride the fields and outlying buildings. A bright and Threadfree day meant every outdoor worker would be doing exactly that. Harvest was just beginning here, and almost every able body that could be spared would be engaged in it. Only the old or the very young would be excluded from the crop fields—the elders scattered about the holding, perhaps, tending stock, mending fence and the many lighter tasks still vital to ensure a fully productive hold. The youngsters possibly occupied by their harper, away from the inexorable swing of the scythes. 

It was more than probable that the two halves of the Hold would trade work to make the harvesting go easier and faster—and that, Sea'n thought hopefully, should make his riders’ task here quicker, too. A good many of those with the ideal number of turns would likely be assembled here already from both East and West. 

He trusted to his searchers to rely on dragon sense as well their own, and not attempt to speak with any possible candidate until a break was called, for the reapers were hard at it in the fields. They swept forward through the golden crop, felling it in a long and rhythmic line. Behind them, a second row of harvesters gathered the lying corn by armfuls, binding it into the shocks that would support each other in tented groups. Both grain and straw must be kept from lying on the ground until the great wagons could be harnessed up and all brought into grange or barn, safe from Thread and weather too. 

It was heavy work, Sea'n remembered well enough from his own hold days. In fact, he had been caught up in harvest—lying atop a tall, wide load as it swayed its way home—when first he’d seen the Search party spring suddenly from _between_ , high above him in the sky. X'var and bronze Simneth had led, and Simneth it was who told his rider that the young Seanachan should come to Igen Weyr to stand before Darith’s clutch. 

The other pair of searchers here today would wander the hold’s many indoor workspaces, chatting amiably with anyone not too awed to speak with dragonriders—even those who, like J'frey and F'mir, were scarcely more than boys themselves. 

But, as they dismounted on the wide, paved space before the hold doors, there was no holder striding purposefully forward to meet and do honor to the dragonriders. 

Instead, a woman awaited them on the steps of the hold itself. She was not attired in impractical finery, as many a holder wife would be for the greeting—warned by the tactfully lengthy descent of the dragons. Her clothing was good, but sensible, clearly her usual attire for a busy working day—an apron probably just this moment cast aside. From her assured manner, however, she must indeed be wed to the holder here—Restray on the west side, Sea'n remembered, Berlan over on the east.

‘Welcome, riders of Telgar!’ the woman called, as Sea'n led his party of riders toward her. The five politely bowed their thanks.

‘I must beg your pardon, Bronze-rider,’ she said, ‘that my spouse is not here to greet you. An urgent matter arose not an hour ago that he must resolve with Berlan at the East hold. I have sent to fetch him—he will be here soon.’ Her voice was low and pleasant, if not particularly apologetic. ‘Please enter the hold and take some refreshment.’

She stood hospitably aside to allow her guests to enter. Sea'n waved Pr'len and the others forward, courteously intending to take her arm and escort her as she shepherded her guests within. But as he came close, she gasped suddenly, and he realized—

‘Abelia?’

_‘Sea'n!’_

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	4. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…he was beyond shock—he was numb…_

Elijah watched in bleak silence as the holder-woman kissed Sea'n.

It was a kiss of greeting only, not of passion, but it was a far more friendly _greeting_ than any holder’s spouse should be giving to a bronze-rider unless she had known that bronze-rider rather well at some point in the past. He quickly ducked around Sammath’s great bulk so he need not see Sea'n’s hands on her that way.

_Who is she, Sammath?_

_The woman is a healer. She was at Igen._

_When? When was she at Igen?_ But he knew that dragons did not measure time by sevendays, much less by turns, so that did not help. _Were they together?_

_She was sad. Sea'n helped her not to be so sad._

_But, did they live together in your weyr?_

_I brought the woman to the weyr sometimes. I do not know where she lived._

The wide paved area was empty now but for the dragons, and Elijah felt the need to move. He was illogically relieved that there were many fewer holdfolk on watch than usual, peering eagerly from the safe vantage point of window or doorway. Illogical, because they could have no notion of the thoughts that roiled in his head.

Still, he frowned, _their_ absence was readily explained by the needs of Harvest, but where were the younger children? They would not be engaged in such heavy work and would not be welcome underfoot, out there in the fields. Generally among the first to arrive, they would peek hesitantly around corners or from behind their mothers’ skirts. 

Elijah had grown quite accustomed to an attendant fringe of youngsters, all wanting to know about dragons and how they might grow up to Impress one themselves. He listened for the choruses that would have told them to be busy at the Teaching with their harper, but he heard only the everyday sounds of a thriving hold—voices calling, singing, humming; clatters and scrapes; the rattle of pans and a clink of dishes in the near distance promising a meal, sometime soon; the clack of nearby looms set up close to a bank of windows, metal shutters all thrown wide to gather every scrap of light and air on so fair and bright a day.

He strode away from the central space, choosing to follow a long blank wall until he reached a door, half-open. From behind it came the shouts and cries of the missing children. A noisy game of some kind was clearly in progress. As Elijah approached, there was a sudden burst of louder, angry yelling. He stepped close to peer inside—and stopped dead. 

Within a high-walled courtyard—a drying ground for the hold laundry, he vaguely realized—a group of children was playing miggsy on a floor that was beaten down to polished mud. The walls were so high and the players so intent upon their game that they had simply not noticed unaccustomed shadow as the dragons came in to land. But a disagreement had broken out now and play was, for the time being, suspended.

There were perhaps fifteen or even twenty of them. Not a one looked to have more turns than Janila and Seret, his own youngest siblings, each with less than ten when last he’d seen them at his family’s hold; when Sea'n came with him and Mother was charmed and Father silent as always. But Willen had a gruff _Good lad!_ for Elijah before they left, which were words of high approval from him, even now that his eldest son was one of the most important people in their world.

The child who had caught Elijah’s attention was speaking now. He stood between a taller boy with a quarrelsome face, who was by his size the oldest, and a younger girl. Her cheeks burned red with the conviction that she was in the right, and she seemed to be about to burst into tears of frustration at any moment. 

The peacemaker was short and stocky, but he spoke definitively of rules and fairness and taking turns. He invited the combatants to clasp hands in renewed friendship, tutting when the boy was slow and the girl pouted and stamped before thrusting out a reluctant hand—and under his guidance the dispute dissolved easily toward further play. 

But it was not the boy’s harpering skills that had halted Elijah in mid-step. It was his mop of sandy hair, the green-gold flash of his eyes in the sunshine, a certain tilt to his chin…

Elijah knew beyond any doubt that the child was Sea'n’s son. 

He quickly turned to leave, pulling the door shut behind him as the cries of ‘Catch!’ and ‘To me, to me!’ started up again. He was beyond shock—he was numb. Why had Sea'n never said—and why—in all the time he had been at Telgar— _why_ had he never come here to visit his son? 

Whoever the woman may be—the woman Sea'n had kissed so fondly, he realized—Sammath had not used her name. She was undoubtedly the mother of Sea'n’s child, but she was not important enough for his dragon to name her. Elijah knew it was petty to think in such a way but he could not help it. It was some small comfort against the hurt that was growing inside. Since their weyrmating had become true and deep, his jealousy of other riders had faded to nothing, for he knew Sea'n too well now even to imagine that he would welcome such advances. 

This was different, though. This was real. This was more real than any disquiet Crista had caused within him, for a child should surely speak of commitment if not of love. And yet, not once had Sea'n come from Telgar to visit his son. Not one word of that son had he spoken to his weyrmate.

The boy looked to have about as many turns as Janila—seven, now, going on eight. So, had he been born…?

 _Sammath? When first you won Allibeth—did Sea'n ever bring the woman to your weyr after you flew Allibeth?_ Could Sammath remember even that?

_We lived with Allibeth and the Weyrwoman. The healer did not stay at Igen. She left very soon._

_There is a child, Sammath, Sea'n has a son! Did Sea'n know there was a child?_

_If Sea'n has a son, we should be happy for him._

Elijah heard the chiding in Sammath’s voice. The bronze could feel his jealousy.

_Sea’n knows of no such child, Elijah. He has not kept this from you._

_Sammath… did Sea'n love her?_

_Sea'n loves you, Elijah. He will be happy in his son, but he cannot love her._

Sammath had answered the question he had not asked, and Elijah felt ashamed now to have doubted his weyrmate. But how could Sea'n not have _known—_?

He turned sharply as the sounds of play came just a little louder. The door had opened once more, a sandy head peering out at him for a moment. Then the boy slipped through and closed it behind him. He must have keen eyes indeed, to have caught Elijah’s silent withdrawal.

‘Who are you, please?’ It was Sea'n’s look of enquiry, set in a child’s face. 

'I am Elijah,’ he said, too unsettled here for anything but truth, and regretting it too late. Telgar dragons must be known even in the furthest reaches of the lands that Telgar protected, if there was a harper to sing the flight of Frideth and Sammath, and to name their riders; and Elijah was not so common a name on Pern. 

The boy looked over to where Sammath and the other dragons waited, and his forehead wrinkled. Elijah’s heart turned over in his chest. This was exactly how a puzzled Sea’n must have looked when he was young. 

'Where is your queen, then? Where is Frideth? Why have you come here on another rider’s dragon? And why do you have apprentice healer knots?’ 

_Sharp eyes indeed!_

'Frideth is on the Sands, back at the Weyr. She has a Clutch to brood, and will not leave the eggs until they hatch. And if I wear my own weyr-rider knots, holdfolk take too much notice of me and I cannot Search properly.’ 

‘But _you_ are not _supposed_ to Search,’ the boy said, decisively. ‘The _other_ colors Search for candidates. The queen-rider stays with the queen.’ 

The harper at Long Gorge must be good for so young a child to understand already the protocol of Search. Or perhaps it was the woman, seeking to protect his future here? If the holder had accepted her son as his own, the boy stood to become holder in his father’s room one day; he must thoroughly know the Teachings, then. 

‘Frideth did not like any of those who were Searched for _her_ hatching. You know what would have happened to her, had she not chosen me?’

The Sea'n-child nodded solemnly, eyes wide with the terrible possibility of death by starvation for a hatchling queen bereft of her lifemate.

‘Then you will understand that I must try to make sure it cannot happen to her offspring—and she did give me leave to come!’ 

‘Oh, yes!’ he said, in complete agreement, now. Then, _‘Oh!_ ’ he exclaimed, and blushed, bright red staining his golden tan. He had clearly recalled the status of the visitor—and perhaps how bluntly he had spoken—and he bowed hastily. 

‘I beg your pardon, weyr-rider! I am Saben. My mother is Abelia—she really _is_ a healer,’ he said, with the merest trace of a naughty grin, ‘and my father is Restray, who is holder at Long Gorge West.’

‘Your father is Restray?’ Elijah did not believe it.

‘Yes, but my _blood_ father is Weyrleader—well, not any longer but he _was_ ,’ the child insisted, proudly, ‘my _blood_ father is bronze-rider Sea'n. _Your_ Sea'n,’ he added, in case Elijah had not taken his point. 

‘I rather thought he might be,’ Elijah said, stifling his laugh at the child’s self-possession.

Saben nodded, knowingly. ‘Mother says that I am the very image of Sea'n but I have never seen him. Am I really?’

‘You really are—but you shall see for yourself, for he is here. Sammath brought both of us on Search and he will wish to meet you.’

Saben looked up, then, eyes focused high above Elijah, and Elijah realized that Sammath had drawn closer and was angling down his great head to peer at Sea'n’s son. 

‘Here is Sammath,’ he said, and stepped aside.

Saben’s eyes opened so wide that sunshine caught the dark sandy gold of his lashes. _Sea'n's eyes, Sea'n's lashes—definitely!_

The boy swallowed hard, a little daunted by Sammath’s vast size, but he stood his ground and bowed. 'Greetings, Sammath,' he said. ‘It is truly an honor to meet you.’

Elijah hid his grin as Saben’s eyes opened impossibly wider and his mouth fell open. Sammath had answered him.

‘Oh!’ Saben said. ‘I had not thought it would be like _that_ to hear a dragon! _Thank_ you, Sammath!’ His smile was beatific—and so much like his father’s.

‘If you try, I think you may be able to speak with him inside your head, too,’ Elijah said helpfully. He watched Saben’s face crease in concentration as he attempted to address Sammath that way, and then light up with excitement as the dragon replied that he could hear him quite well, and he really did not need to ‘shout’. 

Saben cocked his head then, listening to a different voice, calling aloud from the direction of the hold. Elijah heard it too—Saben’s name, insistently repeated.

‘I must go in. Sea'n is there, and I shall meet him at last!’ he said, and then hesitated, anticipation and shyness both clear in his face now. ‘Will you not come with me?’

Elijah shook his head. ‘You do not need me,’ he said. ‘It is a time for you and your mother and Sea'n to share. Later, I shall come, but for now it is better that you meet him without me. Do not look so worried! Sammath approves of you, as do I—Sea'n can only love you, too!’ 

He grinned as Saben walked steadily toward the hold, suspecting that Sea'n would be just as apprehensive though he may hide it better. He would adore his son as soon as they met, of course, just as Elijah had done. This had to be a momentous meeting for all three—mother, child and sire. Four, if Restray had arrived to take up his role as holder and host. 

Elijah rather hoped not. Whatever Abelia may have told her spouse about her son’s father, it must surely be easier for her to speak with Sea'n about Saben, and for Sea'n to speak to their son, before that complication was introduced. 

For himself, the fifth part of the tangle… he smiled wryly. 

His presence would have been a little awkward were this a hold matter only. The fact that he and Sea'n were dragonriders must bring some degree of difficulty—and however little he might want it to, the fact that Elijah’s was a dragon queen, famed throughout Pern, could only add to that. 

He was better here for now. Sea'n would send for him soon enough, to share in this son—and such a wonderful son!—he had found so unexpectedly.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	5. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…someone I would like you to meet…_

‘Abelia, it is good to see you again!’ Sea'n was surprised by the kiss to his cheek, but he returned her hug.

‘And you, Bronze-rider!’ The address may be formal but her smile was full of welcome.

‘The turns have used you well,’ he said, holding her away from him now, so he could look at her. 

It was true. She had been a pretty girl, with mid-brown hair and very dark, expressive eyes, but there was still an unfinished air about her when they parted. Now, with her hair knotted high on her head, all angles softened into rounded curves, and a calm contentment clear in her face, she was an elegant, almost beautiful woman.

‘I may say the same of you,’ she returned. ‘Your new Weyr suits you far better than the old, I see!’ He knew her mild barb to be aimed not at him but at Crista. 

Sea'n had wondered, through the turns, what had become of her. To say that he had missed her would not have been quite true. His life had changed so much after the momentous flight in which Sammath first won Allibeth; there was no longer any place in it for her.

His days were immediately filled with a seemingly endless stream of matters that required the new Weyrleader’s instant attention—his very first Threadfall in full command of Igen Weyr, not the least. He had been excited, elated, and almost panic-stricken, all at once, but knowing that Sammath was approved and chosen by the senior queen had been a steadying influence. 

So long as he listened to his dragon, and to his wing-leaders—all of them men with turns more experience than his own—he’d thought he wouldn’t do too badly, and he hadn’t. Leadership, Sea'n was to find, may become just a little easier with every turn that passed, but it could never be an entirely comfortable state.

In addition to learning to command his Weyr, he had also to learn his Weyrwoman. This he discovered to be a far longer study, and one that would still elude him in the end. Crista was both older and a good deal more experienced than her new mate, who had known nothing between the hesitant love-making of a novice to its ways, and the hasty, dragon-fuelled lust of a mating flight. 

What he and Abelia had done together was sweet and gentle always, but Crista was a bold and assertive weyrmate, sensuous and skilled. She had clearly enjoyed the novelty of a new and untaught man in her bed; and it would not have been truth had Sea'n denied his enjoyment of the things she—quite literally—laid bare before him.

With all there was to learn and to do, it was more than a sevenday before Sea'n found a free moment in which to wonder why he had not even seen Abelia about the Weyr, let alone to speak with. They had both known they could no longer share a bed if Sammath won Allibeth, and indeed, she had kissed him for luck after their last time together, two nights before the queen actually rose to mate. 

It was Master Demory who officially informed his Weyrleader of a journeywoman’s departure to the Healer Hall at Fort; it being past time, he said, for her return. 

Sea'n knew the healer had ordered it, believing it for the best, and he was right, of course. Crista was careful always of what was hers, and a simmering jealousy, however groundless, would have found its vent in wounding words. Abelia’s life at Igen would likely have become very much less than pleasant, had she stayed. But Sea'n would still have liked the opportunity to say his farewell to the young woman who had meant much to him, if he had not loved her as he would one day love Elijah.

He had enquired of her from Master Demory several times on the healer’s return from visits to his Hall, and the tidings were always most positive if, thought Sea'n, a little guarded. The last he had heard—almost two turns after she left Igen—was that she was newly assigned to a hold; just where was not specified and Sea'n had not asked, only wished sincerely that she may be happy there.

Sea'n’s riders had avidly watched their greeting here, and he knew some explanation of that kiss must be called for. Lady holders were never so effusive in their greeting to a dragonman. He had never yet told Elijah about Abelia, simply because she was a part of a past that seemed irrelevant when gone forever. He would do so as soon as may be, but it was important now that these four should not believe he would ever betray his weyrmate with a holder-woman, far beyond the license of a green dragon’s rising. 

Nonetheless, he took her arm and led her formally into the hold, as he would with any holder’s lady. ‘The Lady Abelia is a skilled healer as well as the mistress of a hold,’ he said easily. ‘She served as journeywoman to Master Demory at Igen for some time.’ 

In one of the smaller rooms a tempting array of pastries, both sweet and savory, was laid out already in anticipation of the guests. Abelia invited them to partake as she served klah, and told them with a smile, ‘I returned to my Hall just after Sammath first won Allibeth and Sea'n became Weyrleader. It is always most pleasant to meet old friends again.’

‘Yes, indeed!’ Este quickly agreed. Not for nothing was she considered invaluable on Search. Jadeth may not strictly speaking be a Search dragon, but her rider was famed throughout the Weyr as much for her ability to conduct a genial conversation—no matter how difficult the circumstance, no matter how testy the holder or how shrewish his spouse—as for her bravery in Fall. 

Once again she proved her worth, contributing her own tale of a friend long missed and the joy of finding him once more. 

F'mir and J'frey, with the appetites of very young men, were also drawn into the discussion—if somewhat intermittently, between suitable pauses for demolition of the variety of meat rolls and fruit pastries on offer. Before long, few people could have told that this was not quite a hold like any other that they visited on Search. 

Pr'len, however, took his klah and went to stand by the window, below which lay the forecourt where they had left Elijah standing by Sammath. The green-rider glanced out toward him, then sent a glare Abelia’s way. She did not catch it, but Sea'n did. 

He perfectly understood the unspoken message. Pr'len had accepted that Sea'n would never want him, that Sammath never would fly Litanith; and Sea'n had accepted his flirting to be merely a part of what Pr'len was—as much a part as his humor, his courage and his loyalty. But he liked Elijah, and was clearly jealous now on his behalf.

When Sea'n crossed the room to join him, Pr'len pointedly raised a brow, looking down with intent to where Elijah was no longer to be seen. Sea'n smiled—reassuringly, he hoped—and suggested that he and Este should investigate within the hold buildings and the other two sweep-ride the outlying fields. At least, he thought wryly, Pr'len should not suspect he was being sent completely out of the way.

The four riders left to begin their Search at last, and a drudge came in to remove the mugs and the remains of the refreshments. Abelia spoke quietly to her, asking—Sea'n thought but could not quite hear—that something or someone should be brought.

She turned to Sea'n, then. 

‘That was him, wasn’t it?’ she asked. ‘The one standing with Sammath, who turned away when I kissed you, and would not come into the hold. That was your Elijah. I’m sorry if I—I didn’t realize until too late, you see, or I should not have done it. I was—I _am_ —really pleased to see you again, but I truly would not wish to hurt him, as one of your riders clearly believes I shall!’

‘Elijah will understand, if Pr'len never can,’ Sea'n said. ‘When you and I were together, Abelia, Elijah had less than a dozen turns to his name. He will not hold it against either of us that we loved each other then! But tell me—are you happy here? I have thought of you often through the turns. Master Demory informed me of your success in gaining your mastery, and that you were assigned to a hold, but he was quite rightly reticent as to where it may be.’

‘I am happy,’ she said, her smile warm and open. ‘Restray is a good man, a good spouse, and love came easily between us. Long Gorge West thrives with him as holder and we live very well. My healing skills are not much needed in either half of the hold, but that is as every healer hopes. I have become very proficient at delivering babies, however!’ 

She laughed, but Sea'n thought there may be a touch of nervousness to it now, and wondered why. Perhaps Restray was a jealous man who would not like to see Sea'n in his hold, if she had been as honest with him as he intended now to be with Elijah.

‘I know you are happy with Elijah, Sea'n, for all that I was surprised to hear you and he are weyrmated. But, how is it that he is here? I did not think queen-riders ever came on Search.’

‘He should not do so at all, of course—it is not in the least traditional—but this is one tradition Elijah is keen to flout. He says—’ Sea'n knew he had a fond smile on his face and did not even try to curb it, ‘—he says he must have a part in it so the best candidates may be found. _I_ thought that was what we had always done, but seemingly not as Elijah would wish for Frideth’s young—only the very best for _them_!’

She nodded her understanding of Elijah’s need. ‘We all want that,’ she said quietly. She started a little, then, at a light tap on the door through which the drudge had vanished. ‘Sea'n—there is someone I would like you to meet.’

She crossed to the door through which the drudge had vanished, and opened it to reveal a small boy waiting outside. He came into the room at her nod, hastily scrubbing his hands on his trous as if suddenly remembering they had probably not met with sweetsand and water recently enough to meet his mother’s standards for a meeting such as this.

‘Sea'n, this—this is Saben.’

And Sea'n knew before the child ever reached him.

‘Abelia? Why did you not tell me?’ He could not take his eyes from this small copy of himself, who approached a little hesitantly to perform what was clearly his very best bow.

‘I was not sure, before I left Igen, and after—well, you had a Weyr to lead and a Weyrwoman who…who would not have appreciated our son.’

Crista had never borne a child, had never mentioned children at all and was probably as un-maternal as it was possible to be. She left all contact, care and training of weyrbrats—in her mouth the term was less affectionate than in others’—to Igen’s headwoman, no matter that, as Weyrwoman, they were her own responsibility first. 

Riders were never prolific in their offspring—so much time spent in and out of _between_ during Threadfall could abort a child before the woman even knew she had conceived. Sea'n had wondered if, for Crista, it was accident or choice—the lingering for an extra second or two of _between_ that was whispered to be an escape for any rider who did not want the encumbrance either of pregnancy or of a child. 

He had thought obliquely that a son might be a good thing to have; a gesture of defiance, perhaps—a pledge of hope in Pern’s future. But he had not really known the lack, and with Elijah as weyrmate had accepted that it was not meant to be. He had never considered what it may mean to have a real, flesh-and-blood bundle of dirty face and well-worn clothes and wriggling shyness standing here before him.

‘He is not usually so silent,’ Abelia said, ‘but he has wished for such a long time that he might meet you!’

Sea'n swallowed against the sudden joy that was threatening to choke up his throat, and went to one knee in front of the boy. ‘Hello, Saben. I am very glad to meet _you_ , at last!’ he said. ‘Do you know who I am?’

Saben cast a glance up at his mother, but Sea'n kept his eyes on his son and had no idea whether Abelia had signaled anything to him or not.

‘Of course! You are Sea'n, and you ride Sammath, like in the song. He won Frideth on her first flight and you stopped being the leaders of Igen and came to Telgar to be with his queen.’

_Frideth… Elijah… What will Elijah—?_

‘You _do_ look like me,’ the boy said. ‘Mother has told me so forever! She said…’ He paused and looked at her again. This time Sea'n followed his gaze, and saw Abelia’s nod. ‘Mother said that Restray is my father now, but you are my father also?’ Saben made it a question.

‘I am your father, too,’ Sea'n agreed—and held out his arms, not knowing if the boy would welcome his love but wanting him to know it was his for the taking if he did.

The tears in his eyes blinded him to the joy on Abelia’s face as he knelt, hugging their son to himself.

Sooner than Sea'n would wish, Saben pulled back a little, but only so he might ask, ‘May I call you Sea'n, please? It will be very confusing if I must call _both_ of you Father!’

Sea'n’s, ‘Yes, of course you may!’ was muffled in Saben’s hair as he tugged him close again.

In a little while—and long before Sea'n could ever have his fill of the hugs he’d missed throughout his son’s short life, footsteps approached from the direction of the hold doors. Saben had been fingering the many clustered ribbons that made up Sea'n’s shoulder knot, but now he squirmed in his arms. 

‘Father is coming!’ he said. Sea'n released him at once, but with a pang of sudden disappointment. 

A man strode in, just a little out of breath, as one who has made sufficient haste in his coming to be polite, but not so much as to seem obsequious. He halted and stiffly bowed his head in greeting. Saben ran to him, this man whose son he was in all things but one, and Restray swept him up into a hug so warm and loving it was clear to Sea'n that his son had indeed his own father, now.

Sea'n rose swiftly to his feet, remembering at once that it needed no words for the man to know here was not just _any_ bronze-rider, come on Search from Telgar Weyr.

The formal introduction must be made, however. Abelia moved to stand by the holder and linked her arm with his. ‘Sea'n, this is Restray, holder of Long Gorge West, and my spouse. Restray, this is Sea'n, rider of bronze Sammath and Saben’s blood father.’ 

‘Bronze-rider Sea'n.’ The holder bowed his head once more. ‘My apologies for not being here to greet you. I was needed urgently over at East, Berlan had—but that is neither here nor there.’ He looked at Abelia then, from her down at Saben, and from Saben to Sea'n himself.

‘Holder Restray.’ Sea'n nodded in his turn. He could almost feel the man bracing himself to be told that Sea'n intended to claim Saben, to take his— _their_ —son back with him to be fostered under his eye, at Telgar. A glance at Abelia told him she would not readily believe that of the Sea'n she had known—but she could not be quite certain, after so long apart. 

The Weyr was no place for a child who should grow within a family that had already a loving place for him; where a second father had more time to spend with him than a dragonrider ever could. Sea'n smiled at the three, clustered here before him.

‘I thank you both for raising such a fine son for us! I hope you will continue to do so—perhaps until he is old enough to be Searched?’

Abelia ran to him then and threw her arms around his neck, a tear or two of sheer relief falling onto his collar. Restray, with Saben hugged against him, gave a solemn nod but whatever he might have said was lost to Saben’s excited question. 

‘I am to be Searched one day?’ he asked, wriggling a release from his father’s arms but continuing, once grounded, to hold onto his hand.

‘Indeed,’ Sea'n said, once free of Abelia’s grateful hug. ‘If a dragon selects you on Search then you shall come to the Weyr and be presented to each clutch until you Impress or become too old to Stand.’

‘Frideth’s eggs?’

‘Whichever queen’s eggs are being Searched at the time, and all other clutches while you are a candidate.’

‘I should very much like a dragon from one of Frideth’s eggs,’ said Saben, adding proudly, ‘I can sing the _whole_ of the Ballad of Frideth and Sammath!’

‘You are indeed a fine pupil!’

‘We have a fine harper,’ Abelia said, smiling just as proudly now from the shelter of Restray’s arm around her, ‘and I wanted Saben to know about you. To know what a very good and special man his blood father is.’

‘And, Sea'n? I have met Sammath already, and he _spoke_ to me, truly he did! He talked to me, right _inside_ my head! And Elijah told me how to answer him without having to say the words out loud. How can we do that?’ 

_Elijah knows my son already?_

‘I don’t think anyone knows what makes it possible, but that is a very promising start for one who would be a rider. Sammath does not speak with just anyone, you know!’ 

_Thank you, my friend. You have made a small boy very happy. Was it at Elijah’s asking?_

_No, for I wished to speak with your son—and he is most respectful!_

‘I have also spoken with Elijah,’ said Saben, with a hint of boastfulness. ‘He is here, too—did you know, Mother? He shouldn’t Search at all really, of course, but he says he must, in case the other riders don’t find the right candidates for Frideth’s clutch. That would be too awful, he said, after it nearly happened to his queen at her very own hatching. Elijah is really nice, you know!’

‘Saben, you didn’t tell him…’ Her voice trailed away at remembrance, Sea'n thought, that of all people Elijah would need no _telling_ whatever. 

‘I was very polite, Mother, really I was. I bowed properly and everything, and I called him _weyr-rider_ and not _Elijah_ since I was not invited to do so.’ The child frowned, apparently assessing his own conduct against the hold rules, and then gave a beaming smile, satisfied that he had fulfilled his obligations as the eldest son of the hold.

Sea'n had no real right to pride in this new son, but it flooded through him nonetheless. He exchanged smiles with Abelia who clearly understood and shared the feeling.

‘I am sure that Elijah was suitably impressed,’ Sea'n said, wondering why his weyrmate had not accompanied Saben, then suspecting that perhaps he already knew. Elijah would understand how special this first meeting with his son must be—he had given that moment to them alone, knowing Sea'n would share all with him later. ‘Do you know where he is now? Perhaps you could bring him in to join us?’ 

As Saben sped from the room Sea'n raised his brows at Abelia, who blushed to realize that his weyrmate—and one of the most important people on Pern—was wandering her hold unwelcomed. She had little enough time to gather her composure before Elijah appeared in the doorway, Saben tugging him eagerly by the hand. 

Sea'n watched as weyrmate and one-time lover approached each other. 

‘Weyr-rider,’ she said formally, with a gracious inclination of her head.

‘Lady Abelia,’ said Elijah, and he smiled.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	6. History

_…no-one, after all, had Searched Elijah…_

_Will it be soon, Frideth?_

_Very soon, now. With the next sun, perhaps._

Elijah hugged himself to her outstretched muzzle and smiled broadly. _It will be very exciting,_ he said. _It is exciting enough to see another queen’s eggs hatch. To watch yours will be wonderful!_

 _They are good eggs and many._ There was a hint of complacency in her tone.

Despite Elijah’s earlier fears, Frideth remained completely free of the strange disorder that was restricting clutch size and viability throughout the Weyrs. Of her fifty-three eggs not one lacked the proper warmth, or a certain liveliness he sensed as he ran his fingers over them. The golden egg aside, the rest varied only in the extent and patterning of their subtly mottled swirls. Every one of those almost anonymously smooth shells, however, told a slightly different tale. 

This one felt bold, that one flighty; a determined character here, a sturdily dependable one there; and, even as young as this, the queen herself seemed self-assured, already quite decisive. Elijah still wasn’t entirely certain he didn’t just imagine it, but he liked to think what he found there was the very trait each hatchling would seek out in its lifemate. His once obsessive daily need to check their health had become instead a pleasant time to spend with Frideth on the Sands, familiarizing himself with her brood. 

Sharing his fears with Sea'n had greatly helped, of course. The happiness they found together made it impossible to think the worst, as he had so easily before.

He knew himself—and, by proxy, Sea'n—most fortunate in that he alone of all the queen-riders was unaffected by whatever it was that now beset the rest. It seemed clear that Frideth and her fertility kept him so, though not even the MasterHealer could explain why it should. 

Proddiness was an accepted condition of green-riders whose dragons were about to rise for mating, but weyrwomen had never been troubled by it before. And in them the short temper and irrational behavior, the displays of emotion for no apparent reason, were many times increased and no longer tied to the mating cycle of the dragon. Not only was the harmony of the Weyrs disrupted now, but there was increasing hostility toward Elijah among his peers, both for his queen’s large and seemingly viable clutch and for his continuing immunity from that same disorder.

He shook himself and turned his mind to happier thoughts. _I think I know already who may Impress your daughter._

 _She will choose!_ Frideth’s complacency was overlaid with a touch of chiding, now.

Elijah and Sammath between them had discovered and brought to the Weyr only one girl to stand before the queen egg. At the time, Elijah had been almost sure she matched what he felt when he stroked the smoothly golden surface. But he had made a point of meeting the many candidates who arrived in the Weyr, and briefly spoken with each one. Now—doubtless to the coming dismay of all those whose marks rested on his original choice—he thought it unlikely that Ciala would Impress this particular queen. 

Even with Sammath, of course, they could not Search everywhere themselves, but other Telgar riders had been equally diligent throughout the lands they protected. There would be many more hopeful candidates than eggs, waiting on the Sands for the Hatching to begin; even more boys than usual. But then, this clutch was very much bigger than was now _usual_ , and its dam had proved herself to be most exacting—and, to date, unique—when it came to the choice of a lifemate. 

Elijah knew the bronze-riders had most of them set out with the deliberate intention of Searching at least one boy for the golden egg, in case history should be bent on repeating itself. Only B'ratal, however, was arrogant enough to insist he had discovered the very one who _would_ do so. It was, in any case, simply sense to provide Frideth’s entire brood with the widest and best selection possible. But even those dragons whose eye for a successful candidate was known to be fairly accurate seemed to have no real idea when it came to finding a boy to ride a queen. 

No-one, after all, had Searched Elijah.

When the time for Search drew near, M'chen was invited to Telgar, together with his Weyrleader for courtesy’s sake. He was quietly consulted as to whether Andeloth had in any way influenced his detour to Telgar with Elijah on that fateful day.

‘Is your blue normally sensitive to candidates on Search?’ K'vret asked.

M'chen shook his head as V'rise said, ‘Not when Searching for Fort, at least!’ It sounded like a jest, but there was a hint of sharpness there, Elijah thought. Envy of so many prospective young dragons to augment the ranks of Telgar’s ageing riders, he thought sadly, when Fort queens laid so few. 

‘Did Andeloth react to Elijah in any way at all that you thought unusual?’ Meretin wanted to know.

M'chen’s forehead creased in the effort of remembering. ‘It’s not a day I’m ever likely to forget, of course,’ he said, ‘but what really stands out is Frideth’s Impression itself. It’s quite a thing to know that—even if we didn’t exactly realize we were doing it at the time—Andeloth and I were the ones who brought Elijah here and helped save the hatchling queen. Before that, I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary, though I _was_ in a hurry, I know that. Andeloth told me, just as we landed at the hold, that the Telgar dragons had started humming already, and I really wanted to arrive before it was all over. Wanting to go had nothing to do with what Andeloth said, though—I was always going to try and get there in time.’ 

He paused in his telling, to sip at his klah. Elijah suspected the blue-rider was rather enjoying this—being the centre of attention in such a gathering—and he exchanged a mostly hidden grin with Sea'n. 

‘Elijah wasn’t at all afraid of him, so that was good. You know what it’s like when you go to pick up a passenger and whoever it is turns out to be more scared of your dragon than of flying at all—or even of _between_ , which anyone could understand!’ There were nods all around the table. Every rider had conveyance duty as a part of his or her training, and every one of them had at some time experienced exactly the kind of passenger M'chen meant.

‘But Elijah wasn’t a bit like that—well, of course he wasn’t! He spoke directly to Andeloth too, not through me. Greetings and so forth, nothing much. Oh, he did compliment him on his color. I’d just bathed and oiled him before we left Fort, and he _was_ looking rather splendid!’ M'chen added, his pride in his dragon obvious even at so serious a meeting. 

‘Nothing else?’ 

‘He thanked me.’ Elijah said slowly.

‘He _what_?’ K'vret demanded.

‘ _I_ didn’t hear him!’

‘You have never mentioned this before!’ Sea'n sounded almost hurt that Elijah hadn't told him.

‘He _spoke_ to you?’ 

Elijah faced the barrage of question and exclamation. ‘I had forgotten,’ he said, ‘but Andeloth answered me. He thanked me for the compliment.’

‘You never said a word to _me_ about it!’ M'chen said, clearly a little put out that he should not have known. ‘And how could you have _forgotten_?’ He was more than ever put out, that Elijah could possibly _forget_ his beloved dragon.

‘I didn’t know it was so unusual, then, and I didn’t say anything because I really didn’t want to look like an ignorant fool in front of a dragonrider! I was just a boy from a small hold in the middle of nowhere, M'chen, and you were a _dragon rider_ from _Fort_ —of course I didn’t want to be shown up for a country clodhopper! As to how I could have forgotten—you have to remember, it was a big day for me…’ 

Elijah’s eyes lost their focus as he gave himself over to memory. 

‘First, I was leaving home to go to the Harper Hall, and the furthest I’d ever been before that was to gathers at nearby holds when we’d stock to sell. This wonderful blue dragon—’ from the corner of his eye, Elijah saw M'chen preen himself silently at this appreciation of Andeloth, ‘—had come all the way to Anon, just to collect _me_ , which was—well, it sort of made up for having to say goodbye to my family.’ 

He hadn’t cried when he hugged his mother one last time, but it was a near thing when he saw her fighting her own tears. His excitement at the vast new possibilities of his new life as an apprentice harper had blinded him, until the moment of parting had arrived, to just what he must leave behind. He’d kissed small Janila and Seret goodbye in the nursery earlier. Rial and Jeden were completely awed at sight of the dragon, of course, eyes and mouths wide open. Elijah hugged them tightly but he could tell their attention was mostly on Andeloth. 

Father had stayed back from the fields that morning, just to see his eldest son leave home. He was calm and almost cool in his farewell, but the very fact that he was here, and not out with the shearers, told Elijah what Willen could not easily say; their hug was quick, almost perfunctory, but Elijah knew it just the same. 

The dragonrider’s obvious need for haste had cut short the partings, which was fortunate in its way. Elijah’s startlingly new and different view of the hold of his birth was more than a little blurred as blue Andeloth rose into the air.

‘And we were no sooner aloft—and I hadn’t even _started_ to get over how wonderful it felt to be so high up—than you yelled in my ear that we’d be taking a little detour, and how did I feel about seeing a Hatching—as if it was something I’d ever dared to _dream_ of! 

‘Then there was the sheer thrill of flying for the first time, and the shock of going _between_ , and when we arrived in the Weyr, it was so big, and there were so _many_ dragons—more than I’d thought there could be in the whole of Pern! The air was alive with their humming, and people were rushing to find seats, talking and laughing and calling to each other. People and dragons and noise and—and just so _much_ of everything! I simply sat there with my mouth open until I heard Frideth calling me! And after Impression, Andeloth speaking to me in my head suddenly wasn’t quite so special anymore…’ 

Elijah smiled, remembering his queen’s querulous demand that he _listen_ to her calling him. 

_I did listen at last, Frideth._

_You did, and we are together now._

_Yes, my love, we shall always be together._

‘Before anyone asks—for what must the hundredth time since then—no, I had not the slightest idea of Impressing a dragon. I was still dreaming of the Harper Hall and of maybe one day becoming MasterHarper, myself!’ 

Elijah laughed, though he still wondered from time to time—from idle curiosity alone—what his life might have been like had Frideth not called his name. It would then have had neither Frideth nor Sea'n in it, though—reasons more than enough in themselves for him never to repine that lost opportunity to become a harper.

And now his queen’s first clutch must hatch very soon—maybe even, as Frideth said, the following day. Candessa had been chivvying her staff for at least a sevenday, and the pantries were stuffed with dishes for the forthcoming feast. This would be far bigger and more generous than the one with which the clutch itself had been celebrated, for the Weyr would now play host to many of Pern’s notables, as well as to the invited relatives and friends of the candidates.

 _Your hatchlings will no longer need you when they have Impressed mates of their own. You will be free then to fly me once more, and Sea'n and I shall bring you to meet_ our _son!_

Saben was the most wonderful gift Search had given them. Before they left Long Gorge West, Sea'n promised they would return soon and bring the boy to Telgar for a visit, when the furor of the Hatching was over. They had considered but rejected the idea of bringing him to watch. Both Elijah and Sea'n would be fully occupied all that day, and Sea'n needed no distraction when introducing his son to the Weyr—and the Weyr to his son—for the very first time. Saben, too, would need time to know both of them better. There would, after all, be many more Hatchings in future turns for them to share. 

As soon as they were back aboard Sammath and airborne that afternoon, winging across the Long Gorge to complete the day’s Search at the eastern half of the hold, Sea'n pulled Elijah tightly to him. He nuzzled at the rim of Elijah’s helmet, and Elijah let his head fall forward so Sea'n could reach soft skin beneath his ear. He felt as much as heard Sea'n’s words. 

‘Thank you, Elijah, I love you so much. I could never have hoped you would accept a child of mine so readily.’

‘He is _your_ son, Sea'n,’ he said, for that explained all. ‘I have never really wanted one of my own before, but I would very much like to share yours.’

Sea'n pulled him as far round into a kiss as the sharing of a neck-ridge on Sammath would allow. ‘I thought you may be—’

‘Jealous? Not of Saben—I never could be. But of Abelia—yes, to begin with. I watched her _kiss_ you!’ he remembered indignantly. 

‘But only because we hadn’t seen each other in such a long time,’ Sea'n made excuse.

‘Ah, yes— _how_ many turns does Saben have, again…?’ Elijah asked significantly.

‘Ah, yes, and whenever we go to Anon, there’s that pretty blonde girl—what’s her name—Sindi?’ His question was equally full of meaning.

‘Syntri,’ Elijah supplied, his voice innocence itself, now. 

‘I’m not supposed to notice, then, the way _Syntri_ looks at you like you’re the one mouse that escaped her claws and whiskers?’ 

He knew Sea'n didn’t really mean it, but Elijah thought there might still the smallest bit of uncertainty there. He could put an end to that. 

‘Why, bronze-rider Sea'n—I do believe you may be jealous!’ He twisted in the neck-ridge, reaching to drag Sea'n’s mouth to his. ‘That was entirely different—just a few kisses was all, and not at all like these…’ He demonstrated, slowly. ‘But when we get back to our weyr, I shall show you exactly who is a mouse… and who _isn’t…_ ’ With one last parting nibble he let go Sea'n’s bottom lip. 

Sea'n groaned. ‘Elijah, we still have the other half of this Hold to Search!’

‘There better not be any more holders’ wives down there who think they have the right to kiss my weyrmate!’ Elijah threatened, spoiling his severity with a wriggle back against Sea'n, who groaned again.

‘Elijah! Holder Berlan _will_ be awaiting us for the formal greeting, and I’ll not even be able to get down from Sammath if you don’t sit still!’

Elijah had sighed and desisted. ‘I love you,’ he said.

He would not lie to Sea'n—it had not been easy to meet Abelia. But Elijah had found to his surprise that he quite liked her, after Saben had brought him from where he waited, confident of the summons, and practically dragged him in to meet his _now_ -father and his mother. 

Saben’s cheerful certainty that they must all be his family now—with Elijah as his third, _not_ -blood father—had done much to ease the situation. Restray remained a little awkward, and was not exactly unhappy to be called away to deal with the minor crisis of a broken wheel on one of the harvest wagons. But then, he was unused to conversing with dragonriders at all, except in situations involving Threadfall and possible burrows, let alone with two whose dragons were sung across the whole of Pern—one of whom was blood-father to his own eldest son.

He was not long gone when Saben casually announced, ‘I would _very_ much like to know what it is like to ride a dragon.’ 

Elijah recognized the mostly hidden wheedle. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘Sammath and I shall show you!’

‘No!’ Abelia moved swiftly to claim her son with a hand to his shoulder. ‘I—I beg your pardon, weyr-rider, but I think not!’

Elijah could see that it was all she could do not to snatch Saben away from him altogether. He turned to her, understanding her protectiveness too well. ‘I would not harm the child,’ he said, sadly. ‘I am not—’ 

_Crista_ , he so nearly said, but that would be to condemn her for an evil he could not really believe she would commit, even with the strange, excessive proddiness that had shown itself first in her before spreading to every other queen-rider on Pern but him.

‘Sea'n—take Saben up on Sammath! Abelia and I have things that we must say.’

Sea'n had looked from one to the other. Only when Elijah smiled at him and nodded—a reassuring smile this time, if quite a solemn one—did he scoop up his son and leave his weyrmate with the woman who had once a place in his life and to whom he had once been sincerely attached.

‘I give you my word, Abelia,’ said Elijah, then, ‘that I will never harm Saben. I shall love and cherish your son— _Sea'n’s_ son—now and always. That if there is any help that ever a queen-rider may give to him, then he shall have it without question—without even the need to ask, if I can contrive it.’

Abelia nodded, accepting his pledge. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I did not mean to—it’s just that—I left Igen because the Weyrwoman offered to Sea'n what every bronze-rider seeks. It was best for Igen that Sea'n should become Weyrleader, and so I told him. We were—we were fond but he did not love me as I see—as the whole of Pern knows—he loves you. When Sammath flew Allibeth, Master Demory understood perfectly that Crista would—would strongly prefer my absence, and it really was time for me to return to my Hall for further training. He arranged that I should leave straight away.’

‘You did not know…?’ 

‘Before I left the Weyr? No. I suspected there maybe a child, but I was not certain—even the most effective of herbs may fail, in time! I stayed at the Healer Hall until after Saben was born. I chose not to have him fostered, but to bring him with me when I was assigned here to Long Gorge as healer. Restray was the holder’s son then, and he loved not only me but my child also, as his own. Now he is holder and my spouse—I love him, and he is the only man for me.’ 

She understood Elijah’s unspoken relief, for she smiled. ‘Sea'n is yours and the whole of Pern knows it. But he loves his son already. We always intended he should know Saben one day. It was just—I knew Sea'n would acknowledge him, but I—I could never be quite sure…’ she hesitated.

‘What sort of welcome he might receive from his father’s new weyrmate?’ Elijah asked with a grin. 

Abelia blushed and nodded. ‘I see now that it was foolish of me, but you might have—’

‘I might have appreciated his existence even less than a certain other queen-rider?’ Elijah quietly asked. ‘No, never that! In fact, I could love Saben for his own sake if not for Sea'n’s, for you have raised a very engaging child, Abelia. Keep him for Sea'n—for us—until he is old enough to Impress, as Sammath says he will. One day, we shall come for him, and he will be a great rider.’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	7. Pale Imitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

  
_…couldn’t even_ imagine _himself as a dragonrider…_  


With a sigh and a stretch, Meretin left his dispensary and walked out into the Lower Cavern. He paused. It was almost empty already—unusually so, for it was not yet late. But then, Elijah had said the Hatching would be tomorrow, by what Frideth had told him. Beginning soon after dawn, a flurry of conveyance duty would keep the colors busy, and most riders were weyred already. 

There were a great many visitors to be collected—not just within Telgar’s lands, but from across the length and breadth of Pern. Some were brought in to support a candidate from their hold, of course, be that relative or friend; for others, an invitation was a necessary courtesy. Yet others would arrive with no better excuse than a simple desire to be present, whether riders themselves or those who had begged, bartered or otherwise claimed a dragon ride. 

The hatching of a young queen was a rare occasion, and not to be missed if the means could be found. Meretin could not blame the many visitors for wanting to be present—he was greatly looking forward to it himself.

He glanced over toward one of the smaller hearths and was pleased to find Candessa at least still sitting there, mug in hand. The frenzied preparations for the feast were ended for the day, and her staff dismissed to their quarters. There were probably a great many last minute preparations yet to be made, he suspected, to ensure a celebration worthy of so generous a clutch, but Candessa would never deny any of them the chance, once all was well in hand, to hang up their aprons for a while and join riders, weyrfolk and visitors in the Hatching Ground. 

Candessa herself looked a little tired but not in the least concerned about tomorrow’s festivities. If anything, she seemed a trifle expectant here—probably, he suspected, hoping Carlen may also appear in search of klah. Meretin doubted it would happen. The last he’d seen of the harper, just after supper, he was wearing his preoccupied look—the one that meant his music was calling to him; something suitably jubilant to play at the feast, if Meretin knew his friend at all.

However, she smiled up at him, poured fresh klah into the mug that waited on the table, and pushed it toward him.

He nodded thanks and settled himself on the bench with a sigh. Really, when _would_ Carlen wake up to the fact that here was a woman who was positively pining for him? Well, no—perhaps that made her sound a little too much like a lovesick weyrling, and Candessa could never be that! 

But, she was indubitably interested in Carlen as far more than just a harper, and if Carlen had an ounce of sense he would take her up on it before she changed her mind. She may be rather an armful, but she was comely enough and possessed of a very generous nature. Carlen could do a great deal worse. That, however, must be an egg to hatch another day.

The klah was hot and strong, and just what he needed. The two friends sat in silence for a while, staring into their respective mugs. Candessa was likely reviewing her preparations now, thought Meretin—and with some satisfaction, judging by her expression of calm content. His own mind also anticipated tomorrow’s events, but less confidently, should the Hatching take a certain turn.

‘You know, I’m a bit worried about that lad of yours, Candessa,’ he said aloud, at last.

‘Which lad?’ Candessa frowned. She had many lads who, if they were not exactly fosterlings, were at least under her wing—as once Elijah had been. He had been under Meretin’s special care too, until Sea'n’s arrival at Telgar—and their true mating—made it clear Elijah would never want for watching again.

Except—that could no longer be quite the case, with matters the way they stood now. Frideth’s massive Clutch had made an uneasy truth all too clear to ignore within the Weyr: the fertility of Pern’s other queens had fallen so low that they were losing riders, turn on turn, that could not be replaced. 

Dragonkind was failing to replenish itself fast enough. Only through Frideth and her offspring, now, could they even _hope_ to maintain a shield against Thread. 

The entire Weyr, queen-riders apart, must make it their business henceforth to watch over Elijah. It was not that they did not trust Sea'n to guard his weyrmate, but Elijah and Frideth were the hope of Pern, now—and the life of one young man was a very slender hope…

‘Wrried about Elijah, you mean?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think—’

‘No, not Elijah just now, though of course I worry about him, too. For Elijah, we can only help Sea'n keep a careful guard. No, it’s Kerel for whom I am concerned at present.’ 

‘I shouldn’t think you’d want to worry about him _now_ , for he’s a lot better off here than he was at his hold, I’m thinking!’ she said sharply. ‘He’s still quite sure he won’t Impress, you know, and you’re not the only one he’s begged not to send him off home, whatever happens at the Hatching. He insists there’s nothing there for him and he’d rather stay here and make himself useful. That’s not natural, Meretin. There ought at least to be _some_ thing left behind that he misses!’

Meretin shook his head. ‘I admit I suspected some of the bruises he wore when he arrived to be the result of ill-treatment, but having seen how often he falls, they _could_ be of his own doing.’

Candessa sniffed. ‘Aye, when eggs lay themselves!’ she said. ‘The stripes across his back didn’t come from stumbling over a joint stool or two!’ When Meretin looked up quickly, she shook her head. ‘Healed already, they didn’t need you. I’d not have known but for the need to find him clothes. He’s a first son, for the Egg’s sake—he should _not_ have arrived here without a decently fitting shirt and trous to his name!’ She was angry on the boy’s behalf now.

Kerel was a holder’s son from Millcreek Hold, which bordered the second of Telgar’s chain of lakes. His father had resigned on Kerel’s behalf any claim to inheritance, as the eldest of several possible heirs, on the strength of B'ratal’s promise that he would definitely Impress a dragon queen. 

The boy’s opinion had apparently not been asked, but he had shown himself more than willing to leave, according to Darial who was on Search with B'ratal’s party that day.

Meretin had been one of the first to meet him, for on arrival at Telgar his introduction to the Weyr had been to bang his head on a projecting rock as he came through into the Caverns. Meretin, wiping away blood and applying a compress soaked in a solution of healing root, had assumed him to be overawed merely by being in the Weyr. Though, no-one else—not awed candidate, excited weyrling, drunken rider or careless drudge— _no_ -one had ever managed to discover the offending rock quite as comprehensively as Kerel. 

He was really glad to be here at Telgar, he had said at the time, but he couldn’t even _imagine_ himself as a dragonrider.

‘You must have noticed that I—I’m—I tend to fall over things!’ he finished in a rush. ‘Or over nothing at all,’ he added, with patent honesty. ‘I don’t really think a dragon could want someone as clumsy as me, but I should like to stay in the Weyr and not go home again, if I may, please?’

It was true that Meretin had seen him trip and fall, or almost fall, on a number of occasions since he arrived. Once, over a stool anyone might have missed seeing, but at other times over things he really _ought_ to have seen right there in front of him. 

When the boy had been in the Weyr nigh on a sevenday and simple nervousness—at being in so new and strange a place—could really no longer explain it, Meretin questioned him. Kerel hung his head.

‘It happens a lot,’ he admitted, his face red, hands twisting anxiously between his knees, his feet shuffling beneath the bench. ‘I just…I don’t actually see as well as I should. Father says—used to say—that I—that I’m not fit to be let out at all. He was mightily glad to be rid of me,’ he confided in a rush. 

‘I only hope B'ratal won’t be too angry when I can’t do what he thinks I ought and Impress a dragon. And—and please don’t send me away when I can’t. _Please_ , let me stay here after the Hatching. They don’t really wa—need me at Millcreek, and I don’t want to go back. There are so many more people here in the Weyr and so much that needs doing for them and for the dragons, there must be something _I_ can do. I know my way around now, and I promise to work at whatever job I’m given, and I’ll always do it as well as I can. I’ll try, truly, I will. I’ll do anything at all, as long as you let me _stay_ here!’ 

Candessa was passing at the time, and had paused to listen. ‘If B'ratal even _tries_ to be angry with you, he’ll have me to answer to!’ she said fiercely. ‘And of course you must stay. Who says you won’t Impress, anyway?’ It was clear she had already taken this shambling man-child to her heart.

Kerel was older than many of the candidates, having sixteen turns already. He was of average height but very slender, showing no sign as yet of developing into the same strapping young man that Darial reported his turn-younger brother already to be. It was not difficult to see why Dasken would prefer to name such a lad as his heir, even without the complication of terminal clumsiness.

Nor was it all that difficult, Meretin thought looking at Kerel, to see why B'ratal had brought him to the Weyr, to stand before the queen egg. The bronze-rider clearly believed a resemblance to Elijah may influence the new queen’s choice, for Kerel could quite easily be seen as a younger version of Elijah; Elijah the way he was the day he arrived in M'chen’s charge, in fact, except that his hair wasn’t cropped as tight as Elijah’s had been then, though it was much the same color. His eyes were also wide and blue but faded, somehow, behind their fairer lashes; the combination made him look a little vague. 

He may resemble Elijah but he had nothing of the bright enjoyment of life that Elijah so clearly possessed, either then or—even more so—now. 

Meretin had heard B'ratal justifying his choice.

‘Kerel will Impress the queen, you’ll see,’ he said boastfully.

‘Did Tennoth pick him out?’ F'mir asked slyly. No candidate B'ratal brought to Telgar had ever Impressed a dragon of any color whatever, and it was, in fact, quite unusual for him to volunteer to Search at all. 

F'mir, of course, could afford to feel a little smug, for blue Maruth may be young, but he had already proven quite adept at discovering girls who would Impress green. Also, these girls had a very welcome tendency to demonstrate their gratitude to his rider in a variety of extremely pleasant ways. The healer had long ago learned to quietly supply such candidates with the necessary herbs. A pregnancy was an unneeded complication for one who must give her entire attention to a young dragon, should she be fortunate enough to Impress. 

‘Tennoth? N—yes, of course Tennoth chose him!’ B'ratal finished hastily.

‘Then we may hope he was right,’ Este put in with her usual diplomacy.

Meretin could not endorse that hope. It was unlikely—if not actually impossible—that this newest queen may one day become senior at Telgar. Should that happen, she would need then a rider capable of leading a Weyr; one whose decisions would never be questioned, whose judgment was sound. Few riders would ever have that kind of confidence in Kerel. Meretin wouldn’t, himself. 

He had already proved to his own satisfaction that it was no longer merely a matter of Kerel needing time to adjust to entirely unfamiliar surroundings. Meretin had watched him concertedly—an easy enough task when the lad would never know he was being observed. He moved to and fro steadily enough in the weyrling barracks, the bathing rooms, the heads—all the places that had become part of his life as a candidate; places he went to with his fellows; places that stayed the same. He had quickly learned them, and he knew them now. 

In those parts of the Weyr he did not know well, however—the Caverns, where the tables and benches were set up afresh for each meal, and not always in quite the same places; the storerooms where he may be sent for supplies, where barrels or baskets may be stacked here one day and elsewhere the next. In the many other places his share of the chores may take him, he did not fare so well. 

‘What in the name of the Egg will happen if he Impresses the queen?’ he asked Candessa now. ‘I know some weyrwomen are more…sensible than others,’ _and some can be downright capricious, at times—especially lately,_ he thought but did not say, ‘but Kerel as weyr-rider is quite a scary thought!’

Candessa replenished their klah and sipped thoughtfully. ‘Elijah isn’t in the least bit worried,’ she pointed out, ‘and he’s fussed over those eggs even more than Frideth has, if that were possible! If he believed Kerel had even a chance of Impressing the little queen, I doubt he’d be quite so calm about it.’ 

It was true that Elijah had been out on the Sands every day since they were laid, carefully touching each egg. Candessa may see it as fussing, but Meretin knew Elijah was simply enjoying the reassurance—for he was no longer at all worried, he told the healer—that every one of them was warm and active; that every one of them would hatch a healthy dragonet.

‘I’ve kept meaning to speak with him about Kerel, but what with the berrying, and one thing and another, I scarcely seem to have had time to turn round!’ 

The casal-berry season had passed its peak which, given the need now for a Hatching feast, was most fortunate for Candessa and her already hard-pressed staff. Rich with juice and holding just the right balance between sweet and tart, the blue-black casal berries were a great favorite—fresh or stewed, baked into pies or preserved as sweeting for their bread. There were other fruits available, of course, but the casal was the one most riders and weyrfolk preferred above all.

Sweep-riding for burrows after a Fall was never more thorough than in casal season. On the following day, each rider would load his dragon with weyrfolk, baskets and barrels and set off back to the unpicked berry patches they’d spotted in all those places quite inaccessible except from the air. Canned sweeting was a part of the tithing that supported the Weyrs, of course, but somehow what was received was quite never enough to last the cold season, let alone from one harvest to the next. 

With the advantage of dragons, riders and weyrfolk were able to gather far more effectively than holders. If a good many of the berries were eaten as soon as picked, there was still a generous harvest to be stored frozen, in the permanent ice cavern higher in the mountains even than the Weyr, amid the turn-round snows; or preserved by Candessa’s workers, sufficient that they need never quite run out of sweeting between one short casal season and the next. 

One of Meretin’s _other_ things was always the brewing of soothing draughts to ease the bellies of those who indulged themselves far too freely and paid a most uncomfortable—and embarrassing—price. 

Another was the mixing of a balm to protect against the sun, together with a second that held a generous proportion of numbweed for skin already red, occasionally even blistered raw. It would be too much to expect lusty riders not to take advantage of at least a semi-privacy they could never enjoy within the Weyr, but there were always some who unwisely removed clothing in the heat and for far too long. 

For some—even those who really should recall their hurts the turn before—the return to Telgar could be a most uncomfortable ride. They discovered in themselves a sudden and serious need for the numbweed element to his supplementary balm—for generous application to areas of skin never intended for prolonged exposure to the sun.

‘But very much I doubt,’ he said now, with a smile and an upward glance to their weyr, ‘that either Elijah or Sea'n would wish to speak with me at all, just at present!’ 

There on Frideth’s ledge, her tail and Sammath’s were visible, tightly twined together. That bronze-gold braid was as sure a sign as any riding strap across a doorway that their riders were far too busy within to spare time as yet to an old man’s concerns. 

Candessa smiled indulgently. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough,’ she said. ‘Elijah deserves his happiness tonight.’


	8. Hatching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…as fewer and fewer eggs were each ringed by more and more candidates…_

 

To Frideth’s hatchlings!’ Elijah declared, his smile all Sea'n could wish for in so public a place as Telgar’s caverns, crowded for this celebratory feast. 

This was not the ritual toast, proposed by Lenara as Telgar Weyrwoman and echoed in a roar of cavern-wide approval. As riders of the successful dragon pair, he and Elijah might have claimed places at the high table set aside for notable quests—for queen-riders and their mates, for the Lords and Ladies Holder and their numerous offspring. However, they had managed somehow to avoid further display, and now sat among the group of riders with whom they usually passed their mealtimes.

This toast was Elijah’s own, later, and shared only by Sea'n and their friends; his heartfelt gratitude for the fact that the eggs were safe, one and all. Amid cries of _To Frideth!_ and _The hatchlings—now and in the future!_ and _May she lay many more!_ Sea'n returned the smile and raised his own winecup. 

The look they exchanged was pure joy with just the barest hint of relief remaining. Elijah had let go forever, Sea'n thought, of the last faint echo of his fear that his queen’s offspring must suffer for her choice of him. The over-arching anxiety he’d carried until they became weyrmates in truth had faded to a mild concern, but today’s signal success proved beyond question that never again need they doubt her fertility. 

It was regrettable but true that every other queen on Pern was losing at least an egg or two from the reduced clutches she laid. Frideth’s clutch—though many times the size of theirs—had lost not a single dragonet. Each one had hatched eager and purposeful from the shell, making straight for a joyful lifemate—and Elijah was freed now from even the shadow of that fear.

He and Sea'n had been equally interested in the Impression of every egg, of course, but the huge audience that gathered for the Hatching seemed to fix its attention principally on the one that gleamed softly golden, rocking to the dragons’ steadily rising hum. 

Sea'n couldn’t remember ever to have seen so many folk, so keen to be present at a Hatching—but then, this was a Hatching like no other. Not only was this a bigger clutch than had been seen at any Weyr in many and many a turn; to the blessing of a queen egg was added the dramatic possibility that the young queen may be quite as contrary in her choice of rider as her dam. It was noticeable that there were even more boys than usual on the Sands today. 

Not every rider had been as insistent as B'ratal that the candidate he brought should stand to the queen egg—but then, Elijah had proved quite conclusively that mere proximity to a hatchling was not necessarily what determined her choice. Even among the audience, crowded together on tier after tier of seats, an appreciation of that fact was obvious.

It was quite usual for the Lord Holder of Telgar to attend such an important Hatching in the Weyr that protected his lands, and Lord Steverne and Lady Kentara were both present, of course. It was rather less usual for them to bring with them almost all of their numerous progeny—from Seldac who, having one and twenty turns already, was really past the age of Impression, to Annyet, a pretty little moppet with barely ten. All were dressed gaily in their best and made a happy, chattering group amid the offspring of the equally optimistic Lords and Ladies Holder of Fort, Ista and High Reaches. 

It was quite amazing, Sea'n mused, how very many favors must now be owed to—or have been called in from—the leaders of those Weyrs. He could account for the absence of the Lords Holder of Benden and Igen only in the fact that neither possessed a child who was even remotely eligible.

There were many more of the lesser holdfolk, of course, and they too had brought along as many hopeful offspring as the riders assigned to them would ask their dragons to convey. Sea'n could not put names to all of them, though all had made a point of politely greeting him and Elijah upon arrival. At least as many riders arrived alone, simply to witness the joyful event—Telgar’s own being joined by those from every other Weyr on Pern. 

If there were not many queen-riders among them, Sea'n considered that to be a good thing. Those who had come seemed perfectly amenable—to Elijah’s face, at least. Sea'n was all too aware of how quickly that could change, however, under the influence of the Scourge. A flash of sudden, uncontrollable rage might well cost him everything he held dear. He would not allow his guard to drop for a single moment until the visiting queens vanished into _between_ once more.

By Telgar’s own weyrwomen, Sea'n remained untroubled. Unquestionably, the size of Frideth’s clutch had been a blow to their pride, but in none of the three had envy turned to spite. Sea'n had observed them closely, and had there been real danger to Elijah he was confident he would have found it. Sharp words, perhaps, spoken out of pique when the Scourge took hold, but never a physical threat. It seemed to him that they had known and liked Elijah for too long, through Frideth’s growing turns, to turn against him now, as the queen-riders of other Weyrs had so easily done. 

Also, all three women were in the sunniest of moods today, and Sea'n was quite sure he knew why. He had begun to suspect—and must remember to mention the fact to Meretin—that it was possible to tell, by the fluctuations of a queen-rider’s temper, whether or not she had shared her body as well as her bed, the previous night. 

The weyrmated pairs—K'vret and Lenara, Riana and A'sren—occupied each queen’s weyr together, so proof could not be absolute; but the overnight presence of a bronze upon Malanath’s ledge was the certain herald of a sunny mood in Jendria the following day. Last night had quite clearly been an enjoyable one for all three women—though he doubted their delight could compare with the ecstasy he had shared with Elijah.

Whatever the reason, the Weyr presented an appropriately cheerful and united front before the many visitors today, which was what mattered. The fact that something may be seriously amiss with the queens and their riders was Weyr business and should not be apparent to other folk, Lords Holder or no. 

A marked rise in both pitch and volume in the dragons’ humming said hatching was imminent, and the last lingerers on the Sands hurried to find places, Sea'n and Elijah making for those saved for them by Meretin. They were barely seated before the first shell cracked, putting an end to all chatter for the present, no sound now other than the slow splinter of shell above that constantly encouraging hum.

Then, in a sudden shower of fragmented shell, a dragonet burst forth, gleaming damply bronze. He looked around, instantly spying the boy he wanted. 

It was Olerin, almost unrecognizable now as the drudge Elijah and Sammath had discovered at The World’s End. In not much above a pair of sevendays, he seemed to have grown by a handspan—though that was simply having the confidence to stand straight at last, Candessa said, no longer in fear of a blow—and his head shone now with a tidy crop of short blond curls. He stared at the hatchling and gasped in delight, a wide smile lighting his face. Impression had occurred, just as fast and as easily as that, with every rider present remembering and sharing in that overflowing joy. 

‘His name is Derubeth—and he’s _hungry_!’ 

It was an excellent beginning. Cheers and some laughter rumbled loudly round the Hatching Ground, whole-hearted enough, if short-lived. Then the audience quieted once more, all eager to greet the next new arrival, and most of them hoping it would be the new queen.

As if in answer to their unspoken wish, the golden egg rocked upright now—seemingly as impatient to hatch as it had been to be laid. Only the bronze and two blues had found their lifemates before its shell split into two halves and fell away to reveal a small and glistening queen, alert and already peering eagerly around. Elijah’s sharp intake of breath was echoed up and down the tiers of watchers. His hands around Sea'n’s arm squeezed tighter and tighter until Sea'n could only be thankful his fingernails were still so short, if no longer bitten to the quick.

This hatchling queen was nowhere near as difficult to please as her dam, however. Elijah’s grasp had slackened only a little as she sprang out with such certainty. When she tottered forward, straight to Miktele, he let go and dragged Sea'n instead into a hug that was as much for his love as for the jubilant blending of mind and heart that only a dragonrider could know. Frideth and Sammath were with them then, merging minds with their riders and with each other, reliving that first incredible elation. 

Sea'n wanted so much to kiss him—his Elijah, alight with the memory of Impression. It would wait, he thought, when they released each other, to watch the rest of the clutch Impress. It _must_ wait, until they could be alone—for a single kiss could not be enough.

‘She is Gilanth! My queen is Gilanth!’ Miktele’s voice was filled with triumph and with wonder. 

Frideth bugled a welcome to her daughter, and from the spectators a great cheer went up. The little queen sneezed and fell over backwards. Miktele gently helped her to her feet, and then N'clas was there to lead her and the other hatchlings from the Sands. The clutch was so large that to take them out to feed straight away was safest and most practical.

Eight candidates had ringed the golden egg—five girls and three boys, all but one left standing. Of the girls, one began to weep, another stamped angrily, her face fit to sour the finest of wines; a third was quickly claimed by the mewling green at her side. The others were very soon lost within the white blur of candidate tunics and the confusion of noise and dragonet and broken shell. 

Two of the boys turned at once to join lads who had staked out likely eggs, clustering in small groups around every one, all hoping theirs would be the next to hatch, each boy quite desperate to be chosen. A single queen-candidate stood alone in the centre of the Sands then, seemingly with no idea what to do next or where he should go. 

The boy was Kerel, Sea'n realized, and he was quite simply afraid to move lest he should fall over a hatchling and hurt it. He stood, irresolute, as all about him shells cracked and hatchlings emerged, names were called in pride and delight; as fewer and fewer eggs were each ringed by more and more candidates. 

Then, quite suddenly he seemed to stiffen. He turned right around and walked unerringly toward the small brown dragonet caught within a determined circle of boys it obviously did not want. Kerel’s surety couldn’t last, of course, and he measured his length on the sand when his foot tangled with another lad’s. But, as he scrambled to his knees, the little dragon fixed him with a look of devotion.

‘He—his name is Feruth,’ Kerel cried, ‘and he wants _me_!’ His call was almost drowned in the chorus as three other dragonets also found their mates. But Sea'n was paying close attention and quite clearly heard him reassuring the brown that he was not hurt, that he was used to falling over; asking Feruth if he was truly _certain_ he wanted such a clumsy rider. 

He was not the only one to ask that same question, despite the fact that a dragon’s choice was supposed to be absolute. Dissent was muted until the last new pairs of dragon and rider were guided out to the weyrling barracks, where food awaited the starving hatchlings. As soon as they were out of earshot, though, unguarded comment broke out almost everywhere around the Bowl. 

The unsuccessful candidates were the most vocal, of course, but there were many watching from the stands who had realized Kerel’s ungainliness, and even among riders there were those who would cast doubt on Feruth’s choice.

‘Why should a boy who can barely keep his feet Impress a dragon, when hale candidates are ignored around him?’

‘How can we rely on a rider in the air when he can hardly keep upright on his own two feet for more than a few strides?’

‘Will he ever be fit to _fight Thread_?’

Sea'n caught a wide selection of such complaints and both he and Elijah made sure to correct the speaker when they could. Whatever anyone may think of Kerel—K'rel now, or Ker'l, perhaps?—Feruth had chosen him and that should be an end to the matter. They both knew it was unlikely to be so, but the entire question—of what this Impression may mean, both for the dragon and rider pair and for the Weyr—must be set aside until after the feast, when there should be time for a full consideration. 

Such a large clutch had deserved many candidates, and almost all had family or friends here today in support of them. Of these, there were more well-satisfied than disgruntled, and most of them wanted to thank Elijah—and often Sea'n also, to his surprise—for the great good fortune that had fallen to their son or daughter or friend; only a very few dared voice dissatisfaction to either of their faces. 

Many more folk were present only as observers, their reason for coming only a love of the drama and joy that was a Hatching, and the need to see Pern’s newest queen find her match. Among these was M'chen who confessed, with a hug for Elijah and a mischievous grin at Sea'n, that he had not even the excuse of a conveyance to the Harper Hall to bring him here today. 

The caverns were thronged with people as the feast began, congratulations loud as each new rider joined them, his or her dragonet now replete and safely sleeping. Even for Olerin, Forell and Cerne had come, and were now telling him of the happenings at World’s End since he left—and of Pinsent’s demotion in particular. 

When Sea'n had passed Elijah’s message—tactfully—to the holder, he at once recognized his own oversight and put matters to rights. It was, Cerne confided privately to Sea'n when they arrived earlier today, just the jolt Forell needed to ease him back a little from the blind, relentless work in which he had buried his grief. He was taking full notice of his people once more, which could only be for the good of all.

Commiseration for the unsuccessful candidates was rather quieter, but even for these there could be the reassurance that there would be another clutch for them to stand before, for Malanath must lay her eggs very soon. 

By the time Sea'n managed to extricate Elijah—as Frideth’s rider and therefore part of the miracle of the eggs—from his many admirers, and escape to their usual table, all that either wanted was something to drink to ease dry throats, and a share of the roast, with bubbly pies to follow. 

Elijah nudged him and grinned, and Sea'n knew exactly what he was thinking. Their long misunderstanding had been punctuated with bubbly pies, and neither could eat them now without thankfulness that it was no longer so, and anticipation of proving their togetherness quite thoroughly once more. 

Sea'n stroked one foot carefully over Elijah’s in a silent promise of _Later!_ and Elijah accepted it in the very slightest flutter of lashes and a very visible lick of his lips, as if the succulent gravy _…or maybe melting butter…_ had escaped him. Only a loud snigger from Pr'len, across the table from them, brought Sea'n back to the reality of the meal before him.

It was a moment or two before either of them was ready to rejoin the general conversation, and longer still before Elijah observed, ‘B'ratal looks happy tonight. I’m not sure I have ever seen him smile before!’ If Elijah had never quite lost his wariness of B'ratal, Sea'n thought, at least he could join in the good-natured tease of him behind his back.

‘Kerel may not have Impressed Gilanth, but he _did_ Impress,’ F'mir said, in an undertone but with a wicked grin. ‘He’s the first successful candidate B'ratal has _ever_ brought to the Weyr, and he’s not about to let anyone forget that _K'rel_ is now a rider.’ He managed to look quite solemn as he added innocently, ‘What a pity he should be sitting so few places from D'stal!’ 

Those around their table collapsed into laughter. D'stal was the rider who had brought Miktele from Long Acre, a small hold in the foothills below the Weyr. B'ratal would not boast for long tonight, for D'stal could claim the praise—and also the many marks that rode on that success—for being the one to have found the new queen’s lifemate. 

K'rel—it was decided, and thus he would be entered in Telgar’s Roll of Riders—was the last of the new weyrlings to appear in the cavern, with N'clas behind him clearly urging his reluctant pupil forward. There was no obvious place for him to sit, for no-one, it seemed, had cared enough to make the journey from Millcreek Hold, even with the offer of a dragon ride to sweeten the ordeal. 

Sea'n recalled what Meretin had told him of K'rel’s home life. The lad was right—his father had intended to be entirely rid of him. Well, clumsy or no, he would not find such coldness among his fellow riders. Sea'n would make sure of it. He rose to his feet just an instant before Elijah.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said and strode to where K'rel still hesitated. With a firm hand to his back and a few words of congratulation and genuine approval, Sea'n brought him unscathed to their table, where room was quickly made for him, a plate brought and filled, and K'rel was soon as much part of the celebratory feast as any other new rider, amid a table ringed around with friendly voices. 

If he could not see them too well, Sea'n thought, he should at least _hear_ his welcome.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	9. Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…a much-needed rider who can be no real rider at all…_

K'vret had called the meeting, as the Weyrleader who must worry when one of his riders may—or almost certainly _will_ —prove a liability to the rest. Meretin was present as healer, of course, and N'clas as Weyrlingmaster; Sea'n simply because K'vret had gotten into the habit of seeking his opinion. Candessa had plopped herself down in a seat in the way that said no-one discussed one of _her_ chicks behind her back, Weyrleader or no.

Elijah had as excuse only his sympathy for a lad who, even with a dragon to call his own now, would never find life easy; though he might, of course, claim Feruth being Frideth’s offspring made the brown’s rider his business. 

As for Harper Carlen’s presence… 

_Well_ , thought Elijah, _Carlen is here because Candessa is, of course. Perhaps he’s not quite as oblivious to her charms as Meretin seems to think he is!_

‘How much _can_ he see, Meretin?’

‘Not much. He sees shape, of course, and color. Light and shade, but nothing whatever in any detail.’

Meretin and Elijah had both spent time with K'rel in the sevenday since he Impressed, testing the true extent of the boy’s sight. They had been appalled to discover just how limited it was. If a thing—a person, a place, or a dragon, even—was more than a couple of handspans away, it lost all definition and was little more than a blurred mass to him. 

What struck Elijah most keenly was that K'rel could not see the faces of those around him. He could not share a smile, or a jest without words. He had no idea, when someone approached him without actually speaking, whether they were smiling or angry; whether to expect friendship or a blow. 

Elijah had found him a gentle person, not in the least embittered by his life to date. He suspected in him more of compassion and kindness than most riders possessed, and at least now he had a lifemate on whom to lavish his affection. But further than that…Feruth may bring him green-riders to mate, but K'rel may never see love on the face of someone who was not already a lover—which would make finding that lover an almost impossible task.

Looking across the table at the one face he loved above any, Elijah felt a wave of thankfulness that he was able to see Sea'n clearly—his beautiful eyes with their crinkled humor, his perfectly shaped ears, so sensitive to the lightest breath, his—Shifting in his seat, Elijah brought his mind sternly back to K'rel’s problem. 

K'vret was nodding—to show his understanding, Elijah thought, for there could be no satisfaction of any kind in Meretin’s report. ‘How is he coping with Feruth, N'clas? _Is_ he coping?’ 

‘Surprisingly well, actually—setting aside the fact that he came within a hair’s breadth of losing a finger, if not two, in his first attempt at butchering meat!’ N'clas said ruefully. ‘I simply had not realized, back then, just how limited his vision really is. He trades off tasks with the other weyrlings now—it’s safer for all, this way! I must admit I was more than a little concerned for Feruth in the beginning. I thought the poor beast would end up half-starved and uncared for, with scaly patches everywhere, if I didn’t keep a sharp eye on him!’ 

‘But surely you—’ Candessa broke in, but N'clas raised a hand.

‘Allow me to finish if you please, Candessa. K'rel has never _needed_ such an eye, even if his own don’t see too clearly. I still haven’t known him seek help readily for himself, but when it comes to his dragon, he asks before something can even _become_ a problem. You’ll not find a better fed nor a cleaner, better oiled dragon than Feruth in the entire Weyr. The lad knows his limits—all too well, I’d say—but what he can do, he does as thoroughly as any weyrling I’ve ever taught—which even includes you, Elijah! Between you, me and this table,’ he rapped it for emphasis, ‘there are one or two _riders_ could take lessons from K'rel in the care of their dragons, let alone weyrlings!’ 

It was obvious that K'rel had yet another keen advocate in the Weyrlingmaster, thought Elijah. N'clas had shaped scores of raw pupils into competent dragonriders. If he approved of K'rel, then they must accept his judgment. In fact, if K'rel could only see properly, he would be as much an asset as any rider—maybe more so than some—and the Weyr needed every rider it could muster, these days. 

‘Like the scaly patches,’ N'clas was saying now. ‘He doesn’t find them by _looking_ —he uses his fingers to seek them out, and he doesn’t miss a one. I can tell a dragonet with a vague itch from one that’s content, and Feruth is _always_ content. Too many weyrlings rely on simply _noticing_ , and aren’t just as careful as they might be. With such young dragons, a patch can spread before they realize and think to tell their riders—you know that. But Feruth has never _needed_ to tell—K'rel knows it before he does. And he barely even has time to feel hungry before K'rel is there with his meat! I cannot fault the lad in his care.’

‘It’s his way,’ Candessa said, sadly. ‘He learned early to make what he does as perfect as possible, or go to bed hungry—well, he _used_ to!’ 

No-one whose feeding lay within her power—weyrling, rider or drudge—would ever know real hunger again, if she had anything to do with it. Elijah could recall only too well more than one uncomfortably full stomach, when he’d tried his best to eat all Candessa thought he should, back in his first few sevendays at Telgar.

‘And in his studies, N'clas?’ 

‘He’s very hesitant with anything he hasn’t met with before, of course, but when it’s explained to him, he’s competent and thorough. He works twice as hard as any of the others to make sure he keeps up with them, and he’s not above asking for something to be repeated should he need it—even if he does get teased about it. It seems to me he’s failed too often before.’ 

There were nods all around the table at that.

‘I’ve noticed before how good his memory is—exceptionally so, for a young lad,’ said Meretin, who taught the weyrlings the basic uses of various healing herbs. ‘Most tend to lose all interest once we have covered the relevant properties of numbweed and fellis, but he often asks to know more—where they are to be found, for example, and how best to prepare them—after class is dismissed, and he seems never to forget anything I tell him. I suspect he may have relied on his ability to remember for turns, to keep him from the worst of the beatings for his clumsiness.’

‘I’d like,’ said Sea'n, quietly but very distinctly, ‘to go to Millcreek Hold and teach Holder Dasken a thing or two about being a father!’

Elijah reached for his hand, knowing how much anger lay behind the measured statement. Sea'n was the gentlest of men until it came to cruelty of any kind—or danger to his mate. He also knew Sea'n must be thanking the Egg that Restray had needed no such ‘teaching’ in order to love Saben and raise him as his own.

‘He was probably as much at a loss as we are now, in how to deal with such a lad,’ Meretin said mildly. ‘I can understand, if I could never condone, what a disappointment it must have been to have K'rel as his heir, when the second son is, by all accounts, so much more suited to holding.’

‘His loss is our gain!’ Elijah said hotly, though he saw quite plainly in K'vret’s face, his disbelief at the thought of K'rel as an asset of any kind whatever.

‘It is a sad fact but true,’ Carlen put in now, ‘that many of the older masters in various crafts—particularly my own, where there is much reading of text or of notation required—find their sight deteriorates with age. For them the GlassMaster fashions panes of thickened glass to be laid over each page as they read. The size of the letters can be increased quite surprisingly in this way, but I fear K'rel’s problem is not exactly of the same kind, and not so readily solved.’ 

‘He can scarcely hold a pane of glass in front of his face every time he flies!’ scoffed K'vret.

Before Elijah could leap to his feet in protest, Sea'n’s hand was tugging at his, soothing his indignation, holding him down. He was right, of course. Clear thinking was needed if they were to find an answer to the problem of a dragonrider who could see little further than the end of his own nose.

‘There used to be,’ Meretin said slowly, ‘or at least, mention is made in records that are now almost illegible in themselves, of devices called _spectacles_. Circles of glass, somewhat similar to the eye protectors you riders wear, but held within frames of wire, not hide. Rather than a protection for the eyes, they were fashioned, somehow, to improve sight. But—as with so many things—we have lost the knowledge of how to measure the deficit and equally, how to make it good in any meaningful way. It could be _tried_ , of course,’ he added doubtfully.

‘And if Master Edrin _were_ to devote hours of his time and considerable effort to producing such a thing for him? There would immediately—and rightly—be more marks than enough laid on the likelihood of K'rel dropping it the first time he went aloft on Feruth’s back, and of its never being seen again!’ 

K'vret’s sarcasm was a measure of his frustration, but it did him no credit, Elijah thought, not even when he was probably quite correct.

 _Feruth would find this thing for him_ , Frideth observed, surprising him that she should be listening here—though, of course, it _was_ one of her ‘sons’ that had chosen for himself this flawed rider.

 _Indeed he would,_ Elijah agreed at once. _K'vret should have more faith in—_

‘Oh!’ He hadn’t meant to say anything aloud, but it slipped out as recollection came to him.

‘Yes? What is it?’ K'vret asked, more than a little impatient now. ‘Can you—any of you—offer a practical suggestion as to what we do with a much-needed rider who can be no real rider at all?’ 

They had defined the problem here, but were no closer to a solution than when they began. The Weyrleader was clearly coming to the end of the time he would waste on a boy who was unlikely to cope with even the most straightforward of flights. Flying Fall—the primary purpose of the deep bond between dragon and rider—must be completely out of the question for this pair.

‘Perhaps a passenger, to see for K'rel?’ suggested Meretin.

‘For conveyance duty, maybe, but against _Thread_?’ K'vret’s tone conveyed his derision at the very thought. That never-ending struggle was fast, dangerous and occasionally lethal. It demanded the complete involvement of rider and dragon, mind and body— _and sight_. No mere passenger could ever achieve the acute level of rapport required between man and beast for safety and success. ‘And I won’t be in the least surprised if the boy turns out to be scared of flying at all!’ he added contemptuously.  
‘No!’ N'clas refuted that notion at once, both defensive of a favored weyrling and disapproving of K'vret’s attitude, much though he may sympathize with the Weyrleader’s frustration in the matter. ‘B'ratal would never have been so cocksure about K'rel Impressing the queen if he’d shown fear when Tennoth brought him to Telgar. . And K'rel is as eager as any weyrling for the day his dragon will fly him!’

‘Probably only because he can’t tell how far away the ground is!’ K'vret grumbled. ‘Well, maybe the passenger idea can be tried, once the pair is ready to fly, since a flying beast of burden is all the brown is ever likely to be! Elijah—what were you going to say?’

It was verging upon time for the evening meal to be served now, and Elijah had noticed K'vret’s nose twitch more than once already, at the aromas drifting in from the kitchen cavern. He wasn’t entirely sure his idea would work, either, so he simply said, ‘It was just something I remembered that might help K'rel. It’s probably better if we leave it to another time, though.’ 

He practically had to shout his last few words, for the duty weyrling chose that moment to make sure no rider with ears could possibly mistake the call to table. 

Candessa made a noise like a startled cat and rushed away as fast as her feet would take her. She would have left the meal preparations in the quite capable hands of her assistant, Elijah knew, but for Candessa not to be present when the meal was about to be served would go against all custom. 

‘Very well,’ said K'vret, obviously not putting much faith in Elijah’s _something_ , and rising rapidly from his seat to make for the door. 

Elijah turned to tug Sea'n from his seat. ‘Quick,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I need you to make sure K'rel sits across from me at table!’ Carlen and Meretin seemed to be fully engaged in an abstract discussion of the feasibility of _spectacles_ , and Sea'n didn’t hesitate to steal a swift kiss before allowing his mate to pull him away toward the caverns.

It proved even easier than Elijah expected to bring K'rel to their usual table. As the weyrlings arrived, mostly in small groups by the color of dragon, he observed the ease with which Sea'n gave a masterly display of how to use the prestige of a wing-leader—not that Sea'n would realize his own prestige to be rather greater than any other’s, Elijah knew—to engage the _right_ group in conversation. 

Ty'an and Sk'der had also impressed brown, and Elijah was pleased to see the two sturdy, cheerful-looking lads agreeable to a friendship with K'rel, despite the limitation of his sight. He watched the highly flattered trio approach the table with Sea'n, and signaled to Pr'len, in a nod of the head and a swivel of his eyes, just where he needed K'rel to sit tonight. Pr'len’s many turns of flirting took over where Sea'n’s conversation left off, and before they knew it, the three lads were spaced out along the bench, K'rel next to Pr'len and directly opposite Elijah.

He smiled his thanks and took a deep breath as they waited for serving dishes to pass along the table.

_Frideth, would you ask Feruth if he will hear me, please?_

_Feruth, wake up! Elijah would speak with you._ It wasn’t a request and Frideth didn’t sound in the least bit tactful, Elijah thought—but of course she could not approve of any other dragon than Sammath inside her rider’s head.

 _Yes, Frideth._

Elijah almost laughed, hearing that small voice in his mind. It was sleepy, of course, but more—it sounded so exactly like Jeden when Mother had called him to task for some minor wrongdoing.

 _Thank you, Feruth,_ he said. _You must know I do this only to help you to help your rider, and I would never hurt him. Now, can you tell me what K'rel has in front of him?_

There was a pause. 

_He sits at table and you sit across from him. There is food, but it is blurred. You are blurred._

_Can you make it clear, Feruth? Can you see me?_

_I see it clearly now. I can see you. Oh!_

Elijah felt the beginnings of confusion in the little dragonet, and then as quickly a sudden burst of happiness that flooded through him. And opposite him, tears began to flow down K'rel’s face at the exact same time as he broke into such a smile as Elijah had never thought he would see there.

‘I can—I can _see_!’ K'rel shouted, turning his head this way and that, his eyes widening in wonder. ‘I see you, Elijah, and—and Sea'n, and Darial and Pr'len and— _every_ one. And the table and supper and the walls and the pans and the dishes and— _Candessa_! I _see_ you!’ 

Candessa had heard his first shout and came bustling to know what the matter may be. She huffed loudly as he jumped up and hugged her, and she held him to her now as Elijah suspected he had never been held since his own mother died when he was small, as he’d confided during the testing of his sight with Meretin. 

K'rel pulled away from her suddenly. ‘I’ll be right back!’ he said. ‘I need to know what Feruth looks like now I can see _him_!’ And with that, he positively ran from the cavern.

Candessa collapsed into the space K'rel had left on the bench, Pr'len and Ty'an shuffling along hastily, out of her way. ‘What did you _do_ to him?’ she asked, her voice choked with the joy of seeing such a transformation in the awkward boy she was coming to know and love as one of her own.

‘I may be the healer here, but _I_ did nothing whatever,’ Meretin said, as he crossed to join them. ‘So tell us, Elijah—what _did_ you just do?’

‘It wasn’t anything I did, either,’ Elijah said, ‘it was Feruth. I just asked him to see for his rider. K'rel need never stumble again when he has a dragon to be his eyes—and he will fly as well as any!’

‘But how did you know he could do that?’ Meretin asked. ‘I don’t recall ever being told a dragon can see with his rider’s eyes before—or the reverse in this case, of course.’

‘I think it’s something we all do from time to time without even realizing it,’ Elijah said. ‘Think how often you’ve seen something that, really, only your dragon _could_ see—and every time we fly, we give them our own vision of where to fly _to_.’ Riders all along the table hushed at once, each one with unfocussed eyes as he or she asked a dragon to see what lay in front of it now. Smiles and nods confirmed that what Elijah said was quite true.

‘I have done it with Sammath, so I knew it wasn’t just Frideth,’ Elijah said now, a little evasively. He’d told Sea'n his mind had flown Fall with Sammath, but he realized now he had never gone into any detail as to exactly what he meant by it. They’d found far better ways in which to spend that night than mere _explanation,_ and the subject had never really arisen between them since. He looked at Sea'n now. _Sammath, please say to Sea'n I shall tell him more of this later._

‘Feruth is far too young as yet to realize he can do such a thing for his rider,’ he said aloud, ‘and K'rel wouldn't know it at all. In time they would have worked it out for themselves—I just gave them a little push along the way.’ 

Sea'n pulled him to a hug. ‘More can wait,’ he said. ‘It’s just wonderful that you knew how to turn an anxious, timid lad into—’ he stopped as K'rel came racing back to the table and squeezed himself between Candessa and Pr'len.

‘He’s even more magnificent than I thought,’ he said, ‘but I’m so _hungry_ , now!’ He shoveled mashed tuber onto his fork and then grinned, mouth full, as everyone laughed at him and Pr'len ruffled his hair. Candessa smiled and sniffed away tears into her handkerchief before struggling to her feet. She took herself off to her hearths, promising more food as soon as his plate was clean.

‘You _asked_ Feruth?’ Pr'len said to Elijah, then. ‘You can talk to _other_ dragons too, as well as Sammath?’

‘I don’t think so, not really, but I’ve never actually tried before. I wouldn’t have done so now if it hadn’t been so important for K'rel. Feruth is young and very accepting, too, and I had Frideth ask if he would speak with me, first.’

K'rel swallowed hugely and looked across at him. ‘Thank you, Elijah—and Frideth, too!’ he said. ‘I doubt there ever could be anything Feruth and I can do for you in return that will mean so much, but if there is, you have only to ask—me _or_ him!’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	10. Queens' Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_… naming it had not at all lessened their fear of its effects …_

A steady flow of queens, each with her attendant bronze, spiraled down to land within the Bowl. Their riders greeted each other cordially enough as each pair made its way toward the larger Council Room. Few of them paid heed to the wide array of Telgar’s own riders, watching from the caverns.

It could be a show of solidarity only, Sea'n knew, but Elijah had seemed a little cheered nonetheless by their unvoiced message of support. Riders of every color but gold lingered around the tables there, almost casually at ease, his own wing forming the core around which many others were gathered. 

Candessa had joined them too, taking an unusual break from her labors—though all knew Teesa to be perfectly competent in her absence. She had provided more klah, but there was none of the usual noisy banter that would pass among riders over a mug at the end of a meal. They were watchful, and the words spoken between them were guarded and low. 

It was most fortunate that golden dragons were unaffected by the shift in temperament now afflicting their riders. Once their weyrwomen had dismounted they took off again, flying up to quite serenely perch, side by side, around the rim of the Bowl. The sun cheerfully gleamed from hides that were just gold enough.

It was even more fortunate—for the harmony of the projected meeting if not more, Sea'n realized—that none of them would come close enough to Frideth for comparison. She and Sammath were both in the Hatching ground, mounting a protective guard over her latest, almost equally generous clutch. 

Even so, Sea'n and Elijah had bathed and oiled their dragons for the occasion—as had almost every Telgar rider, to honor this gathering of the queens. But the same must also be true of each visiting queen, and still the difference was quite marked, he knew. In the early morning sunshine, out by the lake, Frideth had brightly outshone them all.

The carved wooden doors were firmly closed on the watchers, and the last of the visitors took their seats around the Council table. Sea'n looked around, a smile of welcome on his face, but you could practically _feel_ the tension in here, he thought. 

It was the first time in many, many sevendays that all of Pern’s queen-riders had assembled in one place, and here they all were, at Telgar—the Weyr most of them, he felt quite certain, would hold somehow to blame for their affliction, simply because it was where Elijah and Frideth lived. 

This could no such queen-rider meeting as had been enjoyed in the past. The ease and support among weyrwomen was long gone, and even limited attempts had ended abruptly in anger, recrimination, tears and sudden departures. In every rider whose queen was still in her breeding turns, wisdom and experience, patience and even long-established, much-valued friendships had gradually given place to the volatility Crista had the been first to display.

In every rider except Elijah.

Crista had apparently confessed that the spread of the condition made her feel just a little better about it. She would admit to having both a quick temper and a sharp tongue, but there were things she had done and said under its influence that went well beyond harsh words, things she much regretted afterward. 

It had a name among the weyrwomen now, this thing that overrode their very nature. They called it the Scourge—but naming it had not at all lessened their fear of its effects.

Today, each of them was accompanied by her weyrmate or by the rider whose bronze had last flown her queen. No-one said, though everyone knew, that the partners here—the term was a so much more tactful than _keepers_ —attended as much to curb as to support. 

And, much though Sea'n may attempt to pass it off as a neat arrangement, he knew Elijah was fully aware of just _why_ his mate had insisted on the alternation of queen-rider with bronze around the table; and why, on his other side Elijah had Miktele, then K'vret and then Lenara, with Riana and A’sren beyond Sea'n.

Frideth’s first daughter had not yet flown to mate, and her rider remained unaffected by the Scourge—as yet. Elijah and Sea'n, K'vret and Lenara between them had debated the wisdom of bringing Miktele to this discussion, and decided it would be politic to at least invite her. 

Many of the weyrwomen were aggrieved by Elijah’s freedom from what ailed them. They saw his Impression of Frideth as the start—and therefore, they seemed to have decided, also somehow the cause—of the problem, as much as a solution of any kind. That was unlikely, of course, if necessarily lacking in proof, but irrational beliefs were the least of their difficulties now. Miktele’s presence, wedged safely here between Elijah and K'vret, may serve to remind them that Frideth’s daughter had indeed, and against the expectation of many, made the traditional choice. 

Miktele was the oldest of the candidates who had stood before the queen egg, and Sea'n had had his doubts, beforehand, that she may in fact be a little _too_ old. Elijah, however, was quietly convinced she seemed exactly to match what he felt from the little queen through the hardening golden shell. Gilanth had proved him right in the end, with Ciala—his own initial choice on Search—left dragonless on the Sands. 

However, one such correct prediction, he’d warned Sea'n fondly, was nothing on which to build Sea'n’s nonetheless firmly held conviction that Elijah would always recognize a rider for his queen’s daughters; though Ciala _would_ , he said, Impress her queen—one day very soon.

Since Impression, Sea'n had realized Miktele’s age may actually prove an advantage, for she had far more experience of life than any raw young girl could have. She possessed firm opinions of her own and would be unafraid to voice them, if necessary, before her fellow weyrwomen here. She was unlikely, he thought, to be intimidated by her first full meeting of queen-riders, as the young Elijah had been. 

If confirmation were at all needed, it was plain from the number of ungracious—and a few completely non-existent—greetings to Elijah, that more weyrwomen than Crista now held a deep resentment against him. Green-riders—always first with any rumor—had already brought home to Telgar tales of viciously spiteful remarks, and even of tantrums on hearing of Frideth’s second clutch (overheard if not actually witnessed). 

Frideth remained vigorous and healthy still, while other queens’ fertility failed. Her clutch was once again, and Scourge apart, quite irritatingly large, with— _humiliatingly_ , it seemed—another queen egg. Sea'n could scarcely blame them for their jealousy.

That second mating to Sammath had been an astonishing experience for both riders. Sea'n had believed their love-making to be already as close to perfection as anyone could hope. To be proved so comprehensively wrong was a wonderful thing, although—as he told Elijah in a thready voice as they breathed together through the aftermath—it was perhaps fortunate a queen mated less often than the greens, for they may not have long survived such ecstasy on a much more frequent basis. 

One more reason, thought Sea'n, for the weyrwomen to be envious. Not that Elijah and he were weyrmated, but because the mating flights of Frideth and Sammath were so high and so long—and so very productive—the harpers were already singing of theirs as a pairing to equal Sean’s with Sorka, Torene’s with Mihall. 

Neither Sea'n nor Elijah had thought it a sensible idea for Telgar to hold this Queens’ meeting, but Lenara had insisted it was her turn to host, by the schedule they’d once followed, and host it she would. K'vret supported her decision, and each of the others had agreed to attend; just how much persuasion was required—over and above the gravity of the situation—and from whom, Sea'n suspected they would never know. 

Lenara must host the meeting, then, but once the pleasantries were over, it was Elijah who would lead it—which was sure to rankle with every weyrwoman in the room. But, he was no longer the youngest queen-rider, he was not female, and he remained completely rational, unaffected by this strange thing that played such havoc with their minds and their queens’ bodies. He must, therefore lead.

Elijah was also, thought Sea'n, the one working most closely with harper and healer, combing the Records for any hint either of the cause of, or a solution to, the problem. Sea'n doubted most of the weyrwomen knew of _that_ , at all.

He was looking tired, Sea'n realized as his mate stood to address his peers. Tonight, he decided, he would put paid to any further study after their meal. He would enlist Carlen’s help in organizing a relaxing session of song and story in the caverns. Elijah should have at least one evening’s respite from his search for answers Sea'n was beginning to think were never to be found, no matter how many Records were searched. 

Sea'n would also ensure a far earlier bedtime, though his method may not— _initially_ at least—prove to be quite so restful. His mate would sleep well, and well-loved, tonight. 

‘You must forgive me if I restate things you already know,’ Elijah began, ‘but only when we are sure each one of us fully understands the seriousness of the matter can we hope to address it together.

‘The decline of productivity in the majority of our queens is of longer standing than we realized. Master Perrenac has collated the laying records of all six Weyrs right back to the beginning of the Pass. He discovered that, from well _before_ the time Conireth rose to Geneth for the clutch that hatched Frideth, clutching rates have slowly decreased—and egg failure rates sadly increased—turn upon turn. For too long, we trusted to the knowledge that the Weyrs were at or near full capacity, that each possessed a safe handful of queens. That their less frequent rising, with smaller clutches, was sufficient still to replace those no longer able for fighting Thread.’

His face was grave as he pronounced the unpalatable truth. ‘This is sadly no longer the case. It is a fact unavoidable now, that the many riders who Impressed in the turns before the Pass began have reached an age where a decline in their skills may bring injury—or worse—to their dragons and to those around them. Over the next five turns, this could apply to as many as a hundred riders in each Weyr—with more in every turn thereafter, of course.’

The collective gasp was loud, thought Sea'n, but not unwarranted. It had been a shock to him, too, when first Elijah showed him Perrenac’s conclusions. Each Weyr must have recognized—in theory—that the number of its riders was steadily declining, but it had been all too easy—in practice—to rely on the ability of queen dragons of turns past; on the continual replenishment of dragon numbers to a level which made possible their ongoing fight against Thread. 

It was, alas, an ability they seemed no longer to possess.

‘We need every dragon we have now and many more,’ Elijah continued, ‘if we hope to keep Thread at bay until the end of the Pass. Frideth and Sammath are more than happy to—to supply Telgar’s need in so far as they are able—’ 

Sea'n’s lips twitched as he realized just how careful Elijah was being now. He allowed nothing to show of how very much more than _happy_ he and Sea'n were with Frideth’s rising and Sammath’s capture of her…

‘—but dragonets, and especially queens, need time to mature—time we no longer have, it seems. And _every_ Weyr needs its full complement of properly laying queens if we are to ensure Thread does not finally destroy the whole of Pern.’

Alert mostly to any possible danger to Elijah from the weyrwomen gathered here, it had taken Sea'n until now to notice that the bronze-riders—or the Weyrleaders, at least—were watching his mate more intently than any queen-rider, and exchanging glances, one with another. He could find no reason why they should do so, but if they had some design upon Elijah, they would not find Sea'n unprepared. 

Unsubtly, he pulled himself higher in his seat, and leaned protectively toward Elijah, who was still laying bare the facts that made such unwelcome hearing. 

‘The Scourge has completely disrupted whatever force controls a queen’s natural laying pattern, Elijah continued. ‘The healers agree that, although they understand neither why nor how, _something_ dictates just when the queens shall begin to rise and lay more frequently, before and in the early turns of a Pass. Somehow, it causes far larger clutches, to meet the coming need. It also controls less frequent rising and the laying of fewer eggs toward the end, with fewer still during an Interval, of course. Our need is as great now as when the Pass started, and yet we have only this decline in frequency and clutch size, still.’ 

Sea'n knew just how much less than legible were the many volumes from which that dispiritingly negative sum of their knowledge had been retrieved, and how endless had been the task. On more nights than he liked to remember, he’d had to collect Elijah from the Records room; rousing him from where he drooped, eyes dulled with strain, over the piles of documents laid out before him. The guilt he should not feel but could not escape drove him, Sea'n considered, at least as hard as any harper or healer.

‘I regret to say we have found nothing, as yet, that could remotely lead to a cure, though Master Lotine and his fellow healers have made a discovery he would like—with your permission—to lay before this meeting.’ 

A restless stirring rippled among the weyrwomen at the table, but none spoke out against and most nodded reluctantly, ‘Very well,’ said Lenara.

At Elijah’s smile, Sea'n rose and went to the door. ‘If you would join us now, Master Lotine?’ he said to the man who waited in a small room beyond, with Meretin for company.

The MasterHealer was a tall man, turning old now, but still shrewd and in full control of his Hall. He made an imposing figure, white hair swinging at his shoulders as he entered, bowed respectfully to the company at large, and took the seat Sea'n set for him.

‘Weyrwomen, Weyr-rider Elijah, Weyrleaders, bronze-riders.’ His polite acknowledgement took care to include all.

Lotine too looked tired—as well he might, thought Sea'n. It was unlikely anyone would dare haul the MasterHealer from his late night studying, the way Sea'n would with Elijah. Of course, he thought, it was also unlikely that—with all the turns upon him—Lotine was to be tempted by the same kind of incentive that worked so well on Elijah, who had never refused it yet. 

‘My Hall sends its most respectful greetings and also our deep regrets that we have, as yet, discovered nothing which may enable the queens to prosper as once they did. 

‘It pains us all the more to know that there was indeed a time when we possessed both the knowledge to understand and the methods with which to treat conditions such as this—this and many others from which our patients must now suffer and die, simply because of our ignorance. Hold and Weyr records contain hints and suggestions of so many things—mention of complex _surgical techniques_ , of _prophylactics_ , of _procedures_.’ He sadly shook his head as he pronounced the archaic words.

Now, we barely know what such terms mean, let alone how to perform the corresponding actions. Through the turns and by whatever circumstance, our records are incomplete at best, no longer legible at worst. It is all too clear that there have been times when healers sickened and died alongside their patients – and the store of their experience as much as their knowledge of such matters, died unrecorded with them.’

The MasterHealer’s dismay, at the waste of so much that should now be the mainstay of his Hall, was all too clear. Sea'n understood it well already; he had heard Meretin bemoan such losses to Elijah, more times than once.

‘We understand the difficulties, Master Lotine, and we very much appreciate the effort you and your healers are expending in this cause. We are confident you will find the answer if there is one to be found.’ Lenara graciously spoke for her peers. 

Lotine inclined his head in thanks. ‘However,’ he continued, his tone rather lighter now, ‘there is a…method by which each of you may achieve at least some degree of control over the condition now affecting you and your queens, excepting only weyr-rider Elijah and weyrwoman Miktele.’

 _Shards, Lotine! You could have been a bit more tactful there! You didn’t have to_ name _them!_

The weyrwomen seemed torn between interest in the possibility of control being offered them, and looking daggers drawn at Elijah. But, when Sea'n touched his mate’s hand and smiled encouragement, Elijah was concentrating on the MasterHealer’s words and seemed not even to have noticed their black looks.

‘It has been possible to decipher some of the very earliest surviving texts, which indicate the existence of substances called _hormones_ , occurring naturally within the body. There are apparently many different ones, with differing but important effects, which my Hall will be investigating further and in far greater depth, of course. The one which concerns us here, however, is named—’ Lotine glanced down at the notes in his hand and then enunciated carefully, ‘—ox-eye-toe-sin. We are not entirely sure how it should be _pronounced_ , let alone the full extent of its properties, but it appears to be most important in quite a number of ways.’

This, Sea'n had not known, and nor had Elijah by the way he too sat suddenly more upright. 

‘Its other applications pertain mostly to the female body, but it is produced,’ Lotine assured them, 'in both male and female and by everyone, not by dragonriders alone. Indeed, we suspect this particular hormone to be a most fascinating area for future investigation, since it appears to explain so much about the bonding of mother to—’

Suspecting a scholarly digression, now, of the kind to which Perrenac was so prone, Sea'n sighed quietly, but Master Lotine rapidly became aware of the growing restlessness among his audience, and desisted. ‘I beg your pardon, riders. You wish to know how this discovery may apply to the problem at hand, of course. Well now, it appears this substance is produced—in both male and female, as I said—during the act of mating, and is in fact responsible for the natural enhancement of mood thereafter.’

Sea'n watched the faces gathered around the table, and a growing realization there of what his words implied. Some riders frowned while others smiled. All listened most intently.

‘Empirical testing at the Healer Hall—in which, I may say, my younger colleagues were eager to take a most _active_ part!’ he paused and raised his brows, allowing his audience their amusement at this touch of levity. ‘Their extremely _thorough_ and quite _dedicated_ testing has proven both the existence and the effect of the hormone in this—this _field of endeavor_. Later, a judicious—and _highly_ discreet, I do assure you—series of observations was undertaken by the most trusted of my Masters within the Weyrs, over many sevendays. These appear to indicate an equally strongly positive effect upon the disposition of our queen-riders,’ he finished blandly. 

The smiles wavered now—the weyrwomen being clearly unsure how to take this. As Sea'n watched, several of them suspiciously looked around; at their peers, as if to divine which of them had been so obvious as to provide this evidence; at the MasterHealer, for having the temerity to instruct his craftmasters to spy upon them.

 _Ah—perhaps not quite so amusing, to have your own love-making observed, outside of a flight!_

He had grown used to the knowing grins cast his and Elijah’s way—the result, Pr'len had teasingly revealed, of Frideth and Sammath infallibly signaling their riders’ absorption in each other. 

_But I was right to mention this to Meretin!_

The Weyrhealer had listened with interest to Sea'n’s conjecture in regard to Jendria, and reported it at once to his Hall. It seemed he was not the only one to suspect what may be occurring, and a number of such accounts, collected from every one of the Weyrs, had provided the basis for the initial testing.

‘Perhaps the only advantage of the affliction now besetting you, weyrwomen, is that the effects of this natural substance appear actually to be enhanced in you. Indeed,’ Master Lotine said, his voice quite affable now, ‘it seems the more often you couple, the more of this substance is released and the nearer to your natural state you return.’

There were suddenly more smiles than frowns around the table.

‘So that _is_ why I sometimes feel quite normal again!’ Sunira turned and smiled mischievously at N'dris who waggled his eyebrows and grinned back at her. ‘We _thought_ so!’

A wave of laughter swept the meeting—a much-needed release from the tension every one of them must feel.

Sea'n looked discreetly around at his fellow riders and their mates, and decided at least half the pairs here had unwittingly tested the MasterHealer’s theory last night and were proving him correct today. He remembered quite well which of the weyrwomen had spoken a cordial greeting to Elijah—and which had not.

‘Unfortunately, here is a natural limit to the number of times…’ Lotine paused, clearly selecting his words carefully, in order to offend no rider, ‘that is, to the _frequency_ with which this remedy can be—er— _applied_.’

‘We can have a lot of fun trying, though!' Cleya of High Reaches said happily, and her young mate squeezed her hand in promise.

One or two of the older bronze-riders looked steadfastly down at the table before them and seemed rather less encouraged by the proposition, but many were exchanging smiles and quiet words with their mates. Sea'n nudged Elijah’s elbow and gave him a beaming smile that turned sultry as he allowed the tip of his tongue to slowly graze his bottom lip.

Elijah swallowed audibly and shifted a little in his seat. 

_Sea'n, Elijah asks me to remind you he does not need this remedy_ , said Sammath.

_Perhaps you would remind him that need and desire may be two quite different things?_

_Elijah says now that you must behave!_ The determinedly sly note was only partly from Elijah’s words.

 _Please tell Elijah I shall do so for now—as long as he promises I need not, just as soon as we are alone._

Elijah received this message with a sideways glance and a mischievous half-smile. Clearly deciding he would not be the only one of them with his ability to concentrate slightly impaired here, he tipped his head a little toward Sea'n, and peered at him from beneath lowered lashes.

It was a look Sea'n had never been able to resist. It was his turn now to shift uncomfortably, as trousers that had felt quite generously loose suddenly seemed a bit too tight. _Tell Elijah he must behave too, for this is a serious meeting and cannot be interrupted so I may carry him away to our weyr for a while!_

Elijah turned and grinned at him then, no more deliberate seduction, just his usual warm, engaging smile. But Sea'n’s trousers still seemed to get just that much tighter.

‘Riders, riders! If I may ask for your attention once more, please?’ The MasterHealer collected his audience back to the gravity of the matter at hand. 

‘I have very little to add, in fact. You probably know already of certain foods which may enhance receptivity, and each Weyrhealer possesses a full stock of herbs to serve the same purpose even more effectively, in both male and female. They will, I am certain, be more than pleased to supply whatever each of you, or your partner, may require. 

‘Finally, I must confess that, although we have by no means given up all hope, I fear there is now little likelihood of anything being found to even explain, much less resolve, this thing now afflicting yourselves and your queens. The Harper Hall has generously taken this opportunity to transcribe each of the records—a major undertaking, lest more of our knowledge be lost, and one in which many of them will be engaged for as many turns to come. It is, however, but poor compensation for what is gone already and, I fear, no consolation whatever to you, to your queens, or to the whole of Pern.’ 

The MasterHealer of Pern sighed heavily as he rose from his seat, bowed before the meeting, and left the Council chamber to a belated murmur of thanks. The shock was as clear on every face, now—barring Elijah’s—as Sea'n knew it had been on his own, when first Elijah told him of Lotine’s regretful conclusion.

~~~~\~~~/~~~~

**A/N** : The natural effects of oxytocin in the weyrwomen are, of course, enhanced and extended by the mysterious malady that affects the queens! 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	11. Petition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…had never known leadership that had dragons to spare…_

The flurry and bustle of a Hatching were over, the remains of the celebratory feast consumed already, and even the last few guests returned to their holds. Depending on the level to which they’d imbibed, it was often safer to bed down the truly inebriated in one of the caverns for the night, than to risk them a-dragonback. Most would have celebrated the success of one of their own a little too freely; others had sunk severe disappointment in quantities of wine or ale. 

Now, the candidates-turned-weyrlings were beginning to settle into the notion that the Weyr was their new and permanent home, and their dragonets were eating and growing, just as dragonets should. And now, Elijah had time to enter the names of each new dragon and its lifemate within the vast Roll of Telgar’s riders. It was a joint effort, of course; he knew every weyrling by name, Frideth supplied the name and color of the hatchling each one had Impressed. 

As soon as all were recorded, Frideth took off for the Feeding Ground once more. Her appetite had returned with a vengeance. Elijah grinned and thanked her, setting aside his quill, stretching upward and back in his seat. He couldn’t help a sigh of relief that all had gone so well—and more, that he need never again fear Frideth’s eggs may fail because of him. 

Even as she was laying this second clutch, she had told him smugly that every one of them would hatch. She could tell the difference now, she said. 

Sadly, she had learned that difference from observing, through Elijah’s eyes, the three eggs that failed from Malanath’s clutch of ten. It had fallen to L'grat, whose bronze Segoneth was the sire, to dispose of them _between_. The entire Weyr had mourned the loss, of course, but always the rider of the bronze felt that sorrow most acutely, as he loosed the sad remains into the freezing void; it was not only disappointment that was then drowned in wine. 

Elijah shook his head to clear away the reminder. Today should not be troubled by such thoughts. Forty-six eggs Frideth had laid, with a healthy dragonet hatched from each: another forty-six riders for the Weyr, another daughter for his queen. Each had found its mate quickly and decisively, and Ciala had justified the conviction he’d held a clutch too soon, by Impressing Toranith.

_This must be how the mother of a large family feels—though even the keenest fosterer could scarcely compare with_ me _for sheer numbers of ‘offspring’!_

The clutch brought Frideth’s total close to the hundred, and the weyrling barracks were busy, cheerful places once again. It was good to see them so. Elijah remembered his own time there, the first many sevendays after he Impressed Frideth. He lived among his clutchmates then, learning with them to care for a young and fast-growing dragon, until Frideth’s wings grew strong enough to fly at last and they were given a queen’s weyr for their own. 

But the noise and bustle of even twenty-three young riders and their dragonets, back then, had served only to point up the empty echoes of too many other rooms. The pallets lining their walls lay bare, still, each with a small chest standing open at its foot, awaiting a new rider’s belongings; each with a dragonet’s sleeping platform lying vacant beside it. Most had not been used in twenty or even thirty turns—not since the large and frequent clutches before and in the early turns of the Pass. 

Now, there were voices everywhere, laughter, song—and groans. A very young dragon was a querulous beast when in need, and the groans came from weyrlings unused to being woken by a voice inside that could not be ignored in favor of another hour or two of sleep; a voice that demanded food or bathing or oiling, according to the need, at almost any time of day or night. 

It was a stage that lasted not much beyond the first handful of sevendays, but Elijah in his time would have sworn a newborn must be less trouble to its mother then, than a newly hatched dragon to its rider—with so much less to feed and bathe and oil, too.

He snorted a laugh, running a quick thumb down the tally of dragonet and rider names. Remembering the ecstatic young faces, recalling which of them now rode green or blue, brown or bronze. He couldn’t help feeing a definite _something_ toward each one of them, and especially toward Frideth’s daughters.

He wondered how he would feel when Gilanth flew at last, and _his_ first ‘daughter’ was besieged as he had been by suitors she may not want. But he had questioned Miktele on the subject already, and she was unworried by the thought of her queen’s mating. He could not pretend to understand that in her, but perhaps Sea'n’s theory of green-riders should extend to include weyrwomen. Maybe they too were molded by their dragons—in this case to meet the needs of a queen. 

And, since Frideth was quite clearly destined from her hatching to need Sammath, she must have shaped Elijah to want Sea'n and no other. Now he considered the matter, his desire for the girls he had kissed and fondled—curiously, but quite respectfully—in the past had been a pale and lifeless thing compared with the desire he felt for Sea'n from their very first meeting. Then, his skin had sheened unexpectedly with want, and he had ached already for the touch of one who was little more than a name to him at the time. 

Miktele, though, had been an older candidate—older than he, and no longer virgin—which, he suspected, had at least _some_ thing to do with her easy acquiescence. He might have saved himself a lot of anguish if he could have faced Frideth’s first rising with some experience already, but he was truly glad he had not. With Sea'n he had learned—it seemed at times they were both still learning—all he would ever wish to know about making love. His only regret was that they had not learned everything together—though some of it, of course, they had, for Sea'n had never taken any other male rider. 

He pulled a face now, knowing perfectly well that a faint echo of his jealousy lingered still. He didn’t like it in himself and would admit only very deep inside—and very occasionally, at that—that he secretly still begrudged the fact that Crista had weyrmated his Sea'n for so long. It was silly, he knew it and for most of the time he forgot about it entirely. 

He was already looking forward to Frideth’s next mating flight—which had as much to do with Sea'n as with his queen.

Sammath would fly Frideth—and Sea'n would take him in their third dragon-enhanced mating. The second time had somehow surpassed the first, that he’d thought perfection in itself. And if it did, somehow, get better each time… Elijah began to think that Sea'n may be quite right to question their survival—though, if he was proved right, together that way was how Elijah would want to go.

It was apparently not only Sea'n and he, however, who were counting the days to her next rising. For at least a sevenday or so before the Hatching, Telgar green-riders had brought home whispers of covert meetings among Weyrleaders—K'vret being quite pointedly excluded. The new riders and their dragons were barely entered in the Roll, and the Weyr back to normal after the celebration feast, than a formal request was received for a meeting with Elijah and Sea'n.

Sea'n sighed. ‘I should have told you then,’ he said, ‘but I was hoping it was all in my imagination. Way back, at the Queens’ meeting, I saw them keep looking at you—the Weyrleaders, not the weyrwomen—and then at each other. I didn’t know why, and I don’t know what I expected—especially since nothing actually happened at all—but I didn’t like it then, and I like it even less, now!’

‘Well, at least now I know what made you _extra_ lovingly protective that night, and any time since then that another Weyr’s bronze-rider has looked at me twice!’ Elijah said with a grin. 

‘Well,’ said Sea'n, his voice dropping to the intimate tone that gave Elijah shivers of the most expectant kind, ‘since you don’t seem to object at all…’ He brought Elijah forward into a kiss—and more—that would delay their assent to the request for quite some time.

Riders and passengers trooped into their weyr now, Frideth having granted permission for each bronze to alight on her ledge while she and Sammath sat on the Rim above to cast a keen eye over all that occurred. 

For just a moment, something in the way their riders eyed him so intently reminded Elijah of his first mating flight. He concealed his shudder under the need to supply the visitors with klah to warm them after the flight, and to arrange for extra seating. For some reason, the Weyrleaders had not come alone. Each was accompanied, to Elijah’s surprise, by his Weyrhealer. 

This was an unofficial meeting of some kind, and therefore not held in one of the Council rooms. However, Sea'n had insisted a table should be brought in, however—to maintain formality, he said. Elijah knew quite well that the more cogent reason was so he could be safely positioned between Sea'n and K'vret, who was present by their express invitation alone. He was clearly not a party to whatever it was the other five may want of a Telgar queen-rider and his mate. 

Elijah looked at Sea'n then, cast a glance toward the small group of healers, and back again. 

Sea'n raised his brows, with a tiny shake of his head that said he had no idea what may be afoot, either. Then, erring on the side of safety—as ever, Elijah thought with a hidden smile—he sent a drudge to bring Meretin, so Telgar may be equally represented, at least, in whatever this should prove to be.

V'rise of Fort, the oldest Weyr, was the obvious spokesman, thanking Elijah and Sea'n—though noticeably not K'vret, at whom he directed a look that was almost a frown—for receiving him and his fellow leaders. 

‘I am sure I need not tell you of the severity of the problem which now besets Pern,’ he began, and then proceeded to do so as if no-one else had noticed. The dwindling size of clutches—‘Frideth’s apart, of course,’ he said with a courteous bow; eggs that failed, unhappy weyrwomen, who disliked knowing they were controlled by this thing that alternately raged or slept within them; wings that must fight harder and faster—those that could—to compensate for riders whose skills were inevitably declining with age… V'rise’s voice droned on.

Elijah let words aloud slide over him and listened instead to the message Sea'n’s foot nudged cautiously against his calf. He wasn’t sure quite how he could make out what Sea'n was telling him there, but as plain as if he’d actually spoken, Elijah ‘heard’ _Does V'rise sound a lot like Perrenac to you? It must be something in the water at Fort!_

He stifled a grin and was then more startled than most by the sudden and loud interruption of a hand slapping the table, hard.

‘Shards, V'rise! They know that as well as you do—Elijah better than any, I suspect! Stop dancing around the point and just _tell_ them why we’re here!’

R'faen was the youngest Weyrleader, Sea'n’s age or thereabouts. He and Hurth had won Doriah and gold Surinath, and with them High Reaches Weyr, only two turns ago. He had never known leadership that had dragons to spare when there were gaps in the wings to make good because of injuries—or worse; when he could allow lightly injured riders the full time they needed to rest and recover; when he could afford to retire those who were really now too old to fight.

‘I don’t yet understand,’ said Elijah. ‘What is it you want of Sea'n and me?’

But V'rise was at a loss for words to put forward his request, now his obviously rehearsed speech had been interrupted. 

R'faen sighed and spoke plainly. ‘We need your help, Elijah—yours and Frideth’s. You know well enough of small clutch size and eggs that fail. What you cannot know is the effect on the Weyrs. Our riders grow old, with little hope for what may come after them when we have so few weyrlings and so many empty weyrs already. Riders are losing confidence in each other and in their own ability to resist Thread—to fight on with no relief in sight. And with no Frideth to repopulate our Weyrs, it will all too soon be impossible to keep Thread from the lands we are now barely protecting. 

‘We need—’ he took a deep breath, ‘—we _desperately_ need for you to grant each of our Weyrs a clutch of Frideth’s eggs—with its queen egg if laid, in hopes that her daughters may be as fertile as she!’

He dropped back into his seat just as K'vret gave an explosive cry. ‘What? How dare—’

‘K'vret,’ Elijah said quietly, and the Weyrleader was abruptly silenced. ‘R'faen dares _because_ they are desperate. And he has the right of it. We should have thought of this already.’ He looked at Sea'n and Sea'n nodded.

‘Sammath told me,’ Elijah said, remembering, ‘when their first clutch was laid, that Pern would need the dragons he and Frideth made—not Telgar alone, but _Pern_. It does no good for Telgar lands to remain Threadfree when all around are burrows because other Weyrs have not the riders with which to fight.’ 

‘But what of your Weyrwomen, riders?’ asked K'vret—a little snidely, Elijah thought; his nose was clearly still somewhat out of joint. 

‘ _They_ surely cannot…cannot like this departure from all custom.’ As he spoke, he glanced aside toward Elijah; he was treading the thin line between mere observation and implied censure of queen-riders—with one of their number present.

Elijah recognized his dilemma and nodded acceptance of a valid point, here. The eggs—more precious than ever, now—could not safely be transported _between_. Frideth’s clutch must therefore be laid and hatched within the Weyr to which they were gifted. Her usual, generous clutch would then be a clear if unspoken—and wholly unintended—comment on the resident queens’ fertility—or lack of it. Such criticism could not be expected to sit well with their weyrwomen. As to what they might do to avenge such a slight to their queens… 

He was completely unsurprised to hear Sea'n’s sharply indrawn breath, and feel a sudden tautness in the body leaning close into his own. 

B'net of Ista sadly shook his head. ‘No, they do not like it. But even when most deeply affected by the Scourge, still they understand the necessity for such an unprecedented measure. We—the Weyrleaders of Pern with most to lose—we pledge our solemn word to Elijah that, if he consents to our request, he and Frideth will be safe within our Weyrs.’ 

Sea'n let the breath escape more slowly, but Elijah remained unsurprised when he stayed near enough to touch. The tension in him didn’t abate one bit.

‘It would mean Frideth coming to each Weyr not only for her clutching,’ Meretin put in practically, ‘but for some little time before. You cannot expect a queen to lay her eggs where she does not at least feel at ease, if never quite at home. And since she must stay with them until the hatching, it means Frideth and Sammath, Elijah and Sea'n,’ he paused there to emphasize the significance of four names, not two, ‘must spend a great part of each turn after this living in another Weyr. This can only be undertaken if all four are willing.’

‘If _Frideth_ is willing,’ said Elijah, just in advance of Sea'n’s, ‘Only if _Frideth_ agrees.’

‘Would you ask her, please, on our behalf—and Pern’s?’ R'faen quietly asked. Weyrleaders and healers alike waited in silence for Elijah to speak with his queen.

_Frideth, my love, are you listening to what is needed of us here?_

_I know what they wish us to do._

_Will you do this, for Pern?_

_Sammath and Sea'n will be with us?_

_Of course—_ I _would not go, else!_

_Then we shall go. I shall like to see the other Weyrs for longer than a single visit._

_It will indeed. Thank you, Frideth._

‘Frideth is willing,’ Elijah announced, and then was disconcerted as each visiting Weyrleader sprang to his feet and bowed, first in the direction of Frideth’s couch and then to him. He blushed. Their gratitude for her generosity belonged to Frideth alone, not to him. He tried to say so, but the words only stumbled from his tongue. He gazed mutely at Sea'n for help.

To cover his confusion, Sea'n stood and raised his klah in a toast to Frideth. When all were seated once more, the relief around the table was palpable.

‘Before the laying—’ V'rise had recovered the power of speech, ‘—what of her rising? Should not that take place in the Weyr which is to receive the eggs? Surely the bronzes there should have the chance—’

‘No!’ Before he could finish the suggestion, Elijah had risen, white-faced and furious at this intrusion in a matter no Weyrleader had the right to decide. Sea'n laid a calming hand to his, now, and he sank back into his seat. 

‘That will not be necessary,’ Sea'n said firmly. ‘Sammath will fly Frideth no matter where she rises, but she and Elijah will feel more comfortable if that rising is from our own weyr. Should the bronzes of whichever Weyr is to receive the eggs wish to make the attempt, they are most welcome, but they will come _here_. And Frideth’s time— _our_ time—away from Telgar will be no longer than she needs to clutch, brood and hatch her eggs.’ 

Even less was it Sea'n’s place to comment, but his certainty helped allay a fear Elijah had thought deeply buried if not wholly conquered. If Sea'n was so sure Sammath would always fly his queen, then Elijah would believe him.

‘We may use the Tallies as the fairest way to decide the order in which the eggs will be received,’ said K'vret. The matter being now decided, he clearly felt that, as Telgar’s Weyrleader, he should have some part at least in this momentous change to all custom. ‘Whichever Weyr loses the final draw must wait longest, of course, and so suffer the greatest loss of riders to age or infirmity. I propose that we should redress the balance by drafting in an extra wing or two for Fall.’

There was general agreement on the point. During the discussion as to means, Elijah slipped out to bring the Tally Box from the Weyrwoman’s keeping. 

Lenara’s mood was fortunately mellow— _K'vret’s forethought!_ Elijah realized, not daring to grin—though her curiosity was quite rampant. She was most reluctant to allow it out of her sight until he promised a full explanation when he returned it to her care. 

The custom had then to be explained to those, like R'faen, whose Weyr did not rely on such an age-old method of settling disputes. Five pieces were selected and placed in the red cloth bag, which was then passed among the Weyrleaders. 

Elijah was relieved when, on the first draw, R'faen was the one to find Sorka and Faranth. He had been so afraid it may be D'trel of Igen. They would have to go live there, of course, but he strongly preferred to have _some_ idea, at least, of what it may be like to have his queen lay her clutch in a Weyr that was strange to her, before that Weyr must be Crista’s. Of all the places he really did _not_ wish to spend the better part of a turn… 

He lost track of the ongoing ritual in wondering how difficult it would be for Sea'n to live at Igen once more. With luck the Igen riders would have forgiven him his desertion, their loyalty having reverted to D'trel. S'ttan, of course, would be glad to have him back, though perhaps it may be hard for him to see Elijah there too. As for Crista… 

The golden egg of Allibeth’s clutch to Menogeth had sadly failed to hatch. It was the only failure of a queen egg to date, which would not make it any easier for Crista to accept either him or Sea'n in her Weyr. A daughter to fly and give Igen a hope of its own would surely have lifted whatever lingering resentment she may still feel for the perceived ‘insult’ to her queen. 

Knowing what the Weyrwoman had tried to do to Sea'n—Scourge or not, oxeyetoesin or not—Elijah was determined that when their time came to go to Igen, he would give her no opportunity to harm his mate again. 

_An Egg to hatch another day, thankfully!_

He sighed as unobtrusively as he might, and was surprised to have K'vret suddenly address him.

‘The tally runs thus, Elijah. High Reaches first, then Benden, Igen, and Ista, with Fort the last of all.’ 

V'rise groaned aloud, and Elijah couldn’t blame him. It would be hard to wait patiently through several turns for his Weyr’s chance of a generous increase in dragon and rider pairs—longer still for them to fly; with a possibly diminishing hope that the clutch may include a golden egg. How likely was it, really, that Frideth could gift a queen from _every_ mating flight?

Whatever the outcome, they would do this, for dragonkind—he and Sea'n, Frideth and Sammath. And there could, after all, be few if any riders in the whole of their history, who could claim to have made love in every Weyr on Pern.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	12. Part Two: Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…what it is like to live as barely welcome guests…_

Sea'n’s eyes met Elijah’s as they raised their wine in the latest toast to Frideth and her newly Impressed hatchlings. Benden was proclaiming its gratitude in a quite magnificent feast, but Sea'n knew he wasn’t the only one to realize how glad their hosts would be to be rid of them, tomorrow. 

He did not care, and nor did Elijah. They were going home to Telgar at long last! Sammath matched his sigh of relief from way up on the rim of the Weyr—and Sea'n was almost sure he heard its echo from Frideth, too. 

The first two of the promised clutches had now been given, and they were free once more—he and Sammath, Elijah and Frideth—until their dragons had mated again and the queen was ready to clutch. The eggs from that flight, of course, were pledged to Igen Weyr…

_Well, that was how the Tallies fell, and we shall have to go there at some point. At least now, we already have some idea what it is like to live as barely welcome guests in a Weyr that’s not our own._

It wasn’t at all the same as when Sea'n had moved from Igen to Telgar, when he was more than keen to become a part of the Weyr that was Elijah’s home and, thanks to Elijah, had very soon become his, too. 

But, even bringing the most precious gift of all, he and Elijah could never feel—could never _be_ —anything other than outsiders to the close-knit Weyr where they must live while Frideth laid her eggs and brought them safely to hatch. And after Frideth’s maiden flight, Elijah had been perfectly safe from harm at Telgar. At High Reaches and at Benden—and despite any promise the Weyrleaders might have made—any time Elijah set foot outside their allotted weyr, never for a moment would Sea'n let down his guard. 

For the most part, the weyrwomen kept their distance—a sensible decision when they could not be certain of keeping a rein on either temper or emotion. Even when one of them had clearly enjoyed the company of a mate the night before and was disposed to be friendly toward the visitors, Sea'n could not be entirely easy in her company. 

The very nature of a Weyr—vast rock-walled caverns that echoed sound whether intentional or not—made unwanted knowledge all too easy to obtain. Benden’s twin craters in particular helped amplify the clatter of objects being thrown, in adjacent weyrs rather than dropped by accident in the kitchens; also the frequent bouts of sharp-edged rage, whose matter for grievance all too often centered on Elijah’s name. 

Weyrwomen and the Scourge apart, their reception had varied within each Weyr. On the face of it, every rider understood it was to their benefit to have Frideth come there for her clutching, and that Sammath as her mate would accompany her. They were all grateful, of course, to know weyrling voices would again echo through barracks that had been all but empty for so long; to know the upper tiers would soon enough have dragons living there once more, dragons who would take up the fight against Thread before their own strength failed. 

But still, every rider resented Frideth and Elijah to some degree, simply because those weyrlings, those dragons, would not be of their own queens’ providing.

Resentment against Sea'n was keenest and most explicable from the bronze-riders, of course. From High Reaches first, and then from Benden, a good many of the bronzes of each Weyr had come to Telgar to challenge Sammath for his queen—to be defeated, every one. 

Probably an even greater irritant was that one or two of Telgar’s own young bronzes had outlasted some of the mature, visiting dragons that flew for her. Worse still must be the knowing that for the youngsters it was sport, for they accepted they would never win Frideth; each was eager only for the accolade of being the one, among his peers, whose dragon flew the farthest in Sammath’s wake.

Sea'n knew, constant vigilance aside, he had the better of their enforced, extended visits. It was decided that, rather than try to integrate a stranger—even had he been entirely welcome—into any wing of the Weyr they visited, he would fly Thread with his own wing still, back at Telgar. It took him from Elijah’s side, not only for Fall itself, but for the regular drills necessary both for morale and to ensure fighting excellence in the air. Elijah understood Sea'n’s need to remain occupied, and honored his mate’s equal need to know he was safe, promising to remain in their allotted weyr in his absence.

Inevitably Elijah spent a great deal of time cooped up there, once the eggs were laid, for the Sands were far too hot then for him to stay overlong within the immediate protection of his queen. Sea'n felt even more guilty when it proved impossible for Elijah to leave Frideth on an unfamiliar Hatching Ground for even the briefest visit to Telgar. 

She became distressed the instant Sammath carried her lifemate into _between_ , and Elijah too was badly affected, almost screaming at the bronze to return to her at once. Searching, of course, was out of the question for clutches laid away from home, even had they known where to find the many scattered holds that looked to a different Weyr for their protection. 

Both Sea'n and Elijah joined the weyrfolk and healers during each adopted Weyr’s own Fall, to assist with the wounded. Elijah’s skills were welcomed then, and Sea'n could at least fetch and carry for those who did know what they were doing. Elijah was safe enough among them, for weyrfolk wanted only for Frideth to gift them a healthy clutch. The weyrwomen were up aloft with their flamethrowers; when they returned, they were too chilled and too weary to give much thought to anything else. By the time they were clean, rested and fed, Elijah was always safely weyred once more. 

Almost as soon as they came to High Reaches, Sea'n saw with concern that inactivity began to prey on Elijah’s mind. There was too little for him to do in a Weyr that was not his own. He had no duties to claim his time, and many of the Weyr records were at the Healer or Harper Halls for copying still, or had been thoroughly searched already. He was used to the freedom of Telgar, but Sea'n could not always be with him to wander down to the caverns for a chat with riders there. 

Even if those riders were disposed to be friendly, they were not friends such as they had at Telgar; and when those same friends visited, Sea'n was also there, so they were a welcome addition rather than a necessary substitute in his absence. 

There were, after all, only so many times you could mend harness, or bathe and oil your dragon; only so many games of Forts and Dragons, or of Solo—games of any kind whatever—you could play before all began to seem rather meaningless. When you set a few odd points here or a quartermark there against the fact that, at least once and often twice each sevenday, the riders around you—including your mate—risked their lives against Thread. Sea'n could well understand that Elijah must feel completely isolated from the life he had known, and was troubled for him.

Even as Sea'n watched and worried, Elijah’s usual bright presence faded. He became listless, over-anxious about Frideth and irritable, too. Sea'n would tease him back into temper, twitting him with being almost as bad as a weyrwoman, and hadn’t he promised not to be? Then, Sea'n loved him into oblivion for that while. 

But he was deeply concerned by the change in his mate, and the next time he returned from Telgar he brought with him Elijah’s gitar, left behind for no clear reason, and a supply of paper from Carlen specially prepared for the writing of music. He laid them quietly down where Elijah could not miss them and announced that he could use a warming drink and would bring a mug for both of them. He lingered awhile in the caverns and was delighted, when he drew near to their weyr with the promised klah, to hear the strum of chords, and Elijah’s voice trying variations of words to a tune Sea'n had not heard before.

Over time, his interest grew from more than a song or two, stretching far wider until it encompassed a full scale choral piece. It was complex work and slow, especially as Elijah had not received—and never would—the training in Composition that would make him a true Harper. But Sea'n could see contentment return to his weyrmate, and rejoiced—even if, on occasion, Elijah was so preoccupied he forgot Sea'n was there with him at all. 

Pleased with his solution, Sea'n would often have Sammath fly him to Telgar early on a Threadfree day for both Weyrs. Before meeting his wing for the practice of strategies old and new, he collected Carlen and brought him to visit with Elijah. He knew well enough that his mate would be happily occupied with the harper—displaying his progress, seeking guidance, sharing possibilities—until well into the night. 

But when at last rider and dragon returned from taking the harper home again, Elijah made sure Sea'n knew just how grateful he was for his mate’s thoughtfulness. It was good to see Elijah at ease within himself once more, his eyes clear and his smile undimmed; and a contented Elijah was a very loving Elijah. 

And now, they were free to return to their own Weyr, and their own weyr, at last. 

Benden Weyr declared itself most grateful for the new young dragons it received here today—the little queen almost as much as the other forty-two together, it seemed. Every member of the Weyr—weyrwomen included—honored both Frideth and Elijah at this celebration feast. Frideth declared herself satisfied to see her offspring suitably paired, and Elijah declared himself—if only to Sea'n—to be more than ready to go home. 

Frideth might well be pleased. For Olenth, her fourth daughter, Impression was as swift and definite as anyone could wish. It was recognized by now that none of the daughters was as contrary in her choice as their dam, and Padine was a strong-minded young woman. She came from Benden Hold itself, and was of the Blood. 

Olenth was well-paired, for Elijah had said long before hatching that the new queen would have a will of her own. As he shrewdly pointed out, with Padine as her rider, Olenth’s origins would soon enough be forgotten. Both would be fully accepted by their Weyr before ever she rose to be mated by a Benden bronze.

 _Frideth’s eggs to Sammath are always good_ , Sea'n thought with satisfaction. _Each one hatches a healthy dragonet and to date, at least, there has been a queen egg in each clutch. Let’s hope it remains true for the next clutch too—for Igen._

 _It will be good to visit there for a while,_ Sammath observed, clearly unaffected by Sea'n’s greatest worry.

Sea'n smiled in spite of himself. _Allibeth herself does not suffer the Scourge_ , he reminded his dragon. _You at least need fear no scathing remark—or worse…_

He was already beginning to worry about their time at Igen, and the last thing they would need then was for Crista to find, in the lack of a queen egg, proof that she, her queen and her Weyr were being deliberately slighted—yet again. 

It would be difficult enough to go back and live there as it was, with Elijah to keep safe the while—and an eye to spare, when he could, in case Crista had more tricks to serve _him_ , too; maybe worse this time than the spraying of cold water. 

Sea'n shuddered to think of her returning from Fall with a serviceable—and possibly not quite empty—flamethrower in her hands. Still perhaps brimming with the wild rush of energy that came from the terrifying thrill of fighting and surviving Thread. He would make doubly sure, then, to see Elijah safely weyred before ever Allibeth came in to land. 

_An Egg almost literally to hatch another day_. For now he was simply grateful they could pack their belongings and settle back into their own weyr for a while.

He was looking forward most to seeing his son again. Elijah said several times he should go visit alone, but Sea'n felt too guilty for more than a snatched visit once in a while, when Elijah must stay behind, trapped in an unfamiliar Weyr by his queen’s gravid condition. And he quelled with a single _glance_ Sea'n’s tentative suggestion that he might bring Saben either to High Reaches or here to Benden. 

He may risk himself and Sea'n coming to a different Weyr, he said, but he would never risk Saben. No queen-rider in her right mind would ever harm a child, of course, but at times the Scourge ensured some of them were not. 

Though they had returned to Long Gorge West several times, for one reason or another the time had never been quite right for Saben to visit Telgar. That didn’t happen until a little before Frideth’s third mating flight and their move to High Reaches for her clutching. It had been most interesting, Sea'n remembered with a grin. 

He had left Elijah sleeping when he took off for Long Gorge Hold, but Sammath relayed excited greetings from Saben to his ‘not-father’, as he glided down toward the Bowl, where Sea'n had quite deliberately asked him to land. It was early, still, and not every rider had finished breakfast. 

When Sea'n guided his son into the warmth of the lower cavern, it took only a moment for the thrum of conversation to entirely cease. They had told no-one of the finding of Saben, not even the four who accompanied them that day, and Sea'n could almost feel each startled gaze as it swiveled from himself down to Saben and up again—and then, almost of one accord, across to the stairs, seeking out Elijah, who was not yet come down to join them.

Saben, aware of the sudden silence, looked up doubtfully at his father as Candessa bustled up to greet them.

‘And whom do we have here?’ she asked, though her answer was writ clear enough in Saben’s face.

Sea'n could hear the edge of sharpness displacing her usual acceptance of all waifs and strays—though this one, to be sure, wore his best gather clothes, forced into them by his mother despite Sea'n’s insistence that they were not at all necessary. 

Candessa was only worried that Elijah did not already know, and may be hurt by the sudden revelation of this new person in his weyrmate’s life, Sea'n realized. 

_As if I would bring my son to the Weyr without Elijah’s knowledge and approval!_

Saben soon tired of waiting for his father to make the introduction Sea'n knew would come better from the boy himself. His very best bow complementing his gather finery, he said, ‘Hello, I am Saben. Please, are you Candessa? Elijah says I shall like Candessa, for she was the nicest, kindest person in the _whole Weyr_ , when he first came to Telgar!’

It was not so far from there to one of her most motherly hugs, and by the time Elijah came to join them, father and son were seated by one of the smaller hearths—Sea'n with klah to warm him after the flight, Saben kicking up his toes before the fire, juice in one hand and a fruit roll in the other. Elijah grinned knowingly at his mate and accepted his own klah from Candessa.

Saben may have lacked a blood-father in his life for so many turns, but Abelia and Restray had between them raised a truly charming child. Though he did suspect it may be just his own partiality, having met their other sons—Strabel with four turns and Liatre with only two—Sea'n remained confident that _his_ was by far the more engaging boy—as yet, at least. 

He smiled again now, recalling Saben’s quite unconscious but very successful assault on Pr'len’s prejudice against him that first day.

Saben, bolder now several of Sea'n’s wing had come to greet him, rushed out of the cavern before either of his fathers had even risen from his seat, eager for his promised tour. He almost ran right into Pr'len, who was just entering. Pr'len might not actually have met him on the Search at Long Gorge Hold but he had no difficulty recognizing him for Sea'n’s son, and more reason than most for guessing who the child’s mother might be. 

Sea'n saw him stiffen, face completely empty, and he tugged on Elijah’s sleeve to wait and watch.

‘I beg your pardon, green-rider!’ Saben bowed his apology, too. He really did have a noticing eye for knots, as Elijah had told Sea'n, laughing at being taken to task over his guise as apprentice healer. ‘May I know your name, please?’

‘I am Pr'len,’ he answered repressively. ‘I ride Litanith. In _Sea'n’s_ wing.’

‘Oooh! You must be very brave, to fly with _Sea'n_!’

‘Yes, well,’ Pr'len said, clearly torn between his determination to dislike the boy, this wholehearted appreciation of his skills, and the effects of a smile Sea'n knew to be totally ingenuous, though he couldn’t see it right then.

‘I am honored to meet you, green-rider Pr'len,’ he said, and politely bowed again. ‘I am Saben, and I come from Long Gorge West and my mother is Lady Holder Abelia and my father is Holder Restray and my blood-father is bronze-rider Sea'n and my not-father is weyr-rider Elijah!’

Under this barrage of information, Pr'len could only nod. Sea'n could see him stiffen again, at Elijah’s name, and then look puzzled.

‘You must know Elijah too, don’t you, Pr'len? I like him—he laughs a lot. And he taught me how to answer Sammath in my head—the same way you talk with Litanith, you know,’ he confided.

‘You have spoken with Sammath?’ Pr'len was clearly impressed, in spite of himself.

‘Yes. Isn’t it kind of him, to speak with me? I only speak when spoken to, of course, for Mother says I’m enough to talk anyone’s ear off, let alone a dragon’s, and wouldn’t it be dreadful to talk a dragon’s ear off? Not that I’m sure how I _could_ , since dragons don’t have ears exactly like ours, but still, it would be, don’t you think?’ he asked earnestly. It was fortunate that he did not wait for Pr'len’s reply—he was looking far too stunned to give one—but forged onward, instead.

‘Is your Litanith _very_ beautiful? I expect she is. I’d like to meet her if I may—with you being in Sea'n’s wing and all. I really ought to know some of his dragons, don’t I? What kind of green is she? Do you know, I had no idea there were so many different ways a dragon _could_ be green, till I saw them all here today! I like every single one, of course, but I think my _very_ favoritest is that little-bit-bluey sort of green, up there.’ 

He pointed high above, where Litanith was sunning herself on her ledge, gleaming from a recent bath and oiling. ‘She’s the exact same color as the Ice Lake when you see it from way up on Sammath, deep and clear and—and _beautiful_!’

If Saben had even noticed Litanith, that day of Search, he could not have known her for Pr'len’s dragon. The two green-riders had completed their Search of the hold and were already helmeted and aloft, before ever Sea'n and Elijah could escape from Saben’s goodbye hugs. And Sea'n did not suspect him of duplicity, in this or in anything—he said what he thought too readily.

At that moment, he could scarcely have said anything more propitious for a friendship with Pr'len. Then, knowing quite well how matters stood, Elijah whisked from his seat, creeping up on Saben to blow a rude noise onto the back of his neck and sweep him up into a hug.

Saben’s giggle was as contagious as Elijah’s own, and Pr'len was impervious to neither; it set the final seal on the green-rider’s admittance into the ranks of Saben’s admirers. Since then, he had even been invited—to his great delight—to help scrub the hide of his _very favoritest_ green dragon.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	13. Indignity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…reduced a great queen and her rider to this indignity…_

The Weyr was unusually quiet. The wings were flying maneuvers aloft, the kitchen staff enjoying a brief respite between one meal and the next, and N'clas had taken the weyrlings out to the lake for the morning’s lesson. Otherwise, Elijah would not have heard the first one at all.

‘Oooh!’ 

A cry of pain, low but clear, from somewhere fairly close at hand. Definitely on the queens’ tier, though he wasn’t sure from which weyr it had come. He set down the scroll he was reading and listened intently. It came again, higher and sharper this time. A short while of quiet and then, he was almost sure, his name was tightly spoken—not called, though. He could not answer unless he was called.

Telgar’s weyrwomen were as afflicted by the Scourge as those of every other Weyr, but here outright antagonism was muted in them to something more like irritation. Sea'n believed they’d come to know and accept him so thoroughly through Frideth’s growing turns, that they were unable now to turn on him as completely as the other queen-riders. Elijah did not really care why, he was just thankful he and Sea'n could relax their constant, wearing vigilance back in their home weyr once more.

One of the most shocking aspects of the Scourge was the sudden vulnerability of queen-riders. They, above all others on Pern, had been in control always. The weyrwomen were responsible for the ordering of the Weyrs, from which all order flowed—from Weyr to Hall and Hold, and thence thence outward to each smaller hold, right down to the meanest cot. Without the Weyrs and the selfless protection of those who lived there, the people of Pern would cease to exist at all, except perhaps as small pockets of primitive cave dwellers, living on who knew what. 

Queen-riders alone could ensure the continuance of dragonkind and of the Weyrs; they, and their queens—all but one of which were now failing in that pre-eminent task.

Master Lotine’s revelation of the uses of pleasure as a curb to temper may have given to any weyrwoman not even casually attached to a single rider, the justification to change her bedmate every other night—or at most by a sevenday’s end. But it had also served to draw those pairs in settled weyrmatings closer together. A rider who cared for his weyrwoman, over and above his bronze’s capture of her queen, was as disturbed as she by the warping of her nature by this thing even the healers could not explain.

For Lenara and Riana, the Scourge had only proved K'vret and A'sren to be true mates. As the malady took hold, Lenara had confided to Meretin and Elijah, it was not only coupling that would lighten her humor. Touching of any kind from her mate could do it almost as well—from the holding of hands to a hug to a back rub. Though the latter, she said with a sedate smile, could scarcely be separately counted, since there was rarely any doubt where it would lead. 

Elijah had grinned with her. He knew _exactly_ where it would lead. A backrub from Sea'n was sheer delight, at the end of a long day crouched over a task of any kind—as was the use to which Sea'n then put his boneless, purring body.

_The aroma of oil floating richly on the air—warmed and ready for a dual use here. Not Meretin’s standard preparation for rider aches and strains, nor even the thinner, more fluid form most readily absorbed by dragon hide. This oil was pressed from josen seed, subtly scented of sweetgrass and all things green—free-flowing, fresh-tasting and sensuous in itself. Best kept for times like these, when a lover wished to pleasure his mate, easing him to best advantage on their bed. Mouth soft upon his, hands slippery but deft—smoothly masterful, knowing just where to knead tension out of reckoning, and where to stroke it firmly into being…_

‘Ooooooh!’ 

A second moan, keening loud and sharp, jerked him from these pleasant recollections. This time, however, it was followed by hurried footsteps in the passage to the stairs, and Riana bursting through the curtain.

‘Elijah! It’s Lenara—she said to fetch you, though I don’t know what good she thinks you’ll be. Come quickly!’

When Elijah came into her weyr he could see the two had been mending harness together, but now Lenara was sitting hunched over, straps and threads scattered about the floor.

She began to straighten, the pain that had contorted her face easing to a frown.

‘Lenara, what is it?’

‘I don’t—I’m not sure. It’s like a very bad— _aaaah!’_

‘Have you sent for Meretin?’ 

‘We already _have_ the best remedies Meretin can offer, Elijah,’ Riana said, then added, rather patronizingly, he thought, ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

_Oh. Of course. But—_

‘It’s not usually like this,’ he said. ‘I have never seen any of you so badly affected by your moon time.’ Riana glared at him. She was not to know that he had helped Mother to gather and to blend the herbs against moon pains along with many others.

‘That’s not what this is,’ Lenara said with a sharp gasp. ‘It isn’t me, it’s Conireth, but it hurts just the same!’ She doubled over with another moan.

‘Riana—get Meretin, now! And ask Candessa to fill the bottles with hot water.’ 

_Frideth, please ask Conireth what is the matter._

Elijah guided Lenara to her bed. It was fortunate in more ways than one, he thought, that this had happened in her weyr rather down than in the caverns, for the wings would soon return, the Bowl filling once more with the clamor of an active Weyr. Her pain was not open to the general view here, and it was quickly possible for her to lie down and discover which position hurt the least. She rolled to one side, legs tucked up tight, face pale and anxious between the twists of agony that seemed to be coming more frequently.

_Conireth says her belly hurts. It is the eggs._

_She is laying? She’s down on the Sands, already and you didn’t tell me?_

_She is not there yet. We were on the heights when the hurt began. She did not know she needed to lay until then. But the feeling is wrong and her belly hurts._

_Is she still with you?_

_No—she is gliding to the Sands now. Shall I come?_

_Wait. We may not be needed—Meretin may have some remedy to help her._

Meretin came hurriedly into the weyr. ‘What’s wrong, Lenara? Riana said you—’

Lenara’s only reply was a moan she tried to stifle, and it was Elijah who explained. ‘This isn’t her pain, Meretin, it’s Conireth’s. Frideth says it’s the eggs—she wants to lay them and she can’t. She has just now landed on to the Sands,’ he added, as Frideth nudged the image into his mind. ‘I’ve sent for hot bottles for Lenara, too.’

‘Good, good,’ Meretin said, distractedly. ‘Hmm.’ He exchanged glances with Elijah as he approached the bed where Lenara was writhing once more.

‘Cane-berry leaf?’ Elijah suggested.

‘Well, it helps in childbirth, and the system must be at least _similar_. But I don’t even know if it works on _fowls_ —as the nearest things with wings—let alone dragons! We know so very little about a dragon’s internal anatomy.’ 

Of course not. Some kinds of healer knowledge could be gained only by the examination of corpses; dragons—even failed eggs and the rare hatchling that could not Impress—went or were taken _between_ in death, leaving no body behind. Elijah shivered and thought the question of cane-berry leaf to Sea'n through Sammath. Almost at once he heard the bronze direct Sea'n’s wing-second to take charge, then a sudden blank in his mind told him they had gone _between_ at once to the Beasthold at Keroon. 

‘We should _try_ it, at least, for both of them. Ah, Candessa—what a treasure you are!’ said Meretin, as the plump headwoman panted into the weyr on the heels of a pair of laden drudges.

Between them, the two were carrying a half dozen of the stoneware bottles with one flat side—kept for the sick, for those with moon pains or with cold winter toes. Barely allowing them to set foot inside the weyr, Candessa directed them to deposit the bottles and be gone, then set about making Lenara as warm and as comfortable as possible. Whatever one may say about her constant _need to know_ , her support for anyone in trouble was a reassurance in itself. She busied herself now, packing the hot bottles around her patient and encouraging her to drink the soothing herbal draught she had brought. No matter what ailed Lenara, she could only be the better for its warmth inside her.

‘No—I can’t stay here—I should be with Con—’ Lenara began but was cut off by another of the pains. Less sharp, though, Elijah thought, for she was wincing now, rather than curling in agony. The heat must be helping already—both Weyrwoman and dragon queen. 

‘Now, dear,’ Candessa said soothingly—a form of address she only ever used in times of stress for a patient, Elijah knew. She raised her brows at him.

_Does Conireth need Lenara on the Sands, Frideth? Does she need you there?_

_I am here. Conireth is telling Lenara to stay._ Elijah shook his head to Candessa.

‘Now, dear,’ Candessa repeated, ‘your presence can be of no use to her whatever, if you’re in pain too. It will only make her fret over you. Stay with her in your mind, of course, but you should rest here and keep warm for now. Meretin will have the both of you sorted out in no time,’ she added bracingly, but when she turned to Meretin her face was full of concern. ‘The tea?’ she asked.

Meretin nodded. ‘We can only try it. I hope you keep good supplies of leaf, for we must see if it will help Conireth, too. I don’t keep so much in hand,’ he said.

‘We can borrow if need be—it’s not a problem,’ Candessa said dismissively, already making for the stairs. ‘The same concentration for both?’

‘No, twice for Conireth, I think, at least to begin with,’ Meretin said, watching as his patient flinched at the pain once more. ‘Less sweetener for her, though—I doubt dragons have a taste for such things.’ He was holding Lenara’s wrist now, feeling the pulse of blood there. He rippled the fingers of his other hand so only Elijah could see.

 _Fast and uneven_ , thought Elijah, _but that’s probably her panic over Conireth. I know mine races when I’m even a little worried about Frideth._

‘I’ll go check the records,’ he said aloud. ‘I have a feeling I’ve seen a reference to this before, but from many turns ago, I think. I’m not even sure it was in ours, though. I’d remember better if it were. High Reaches’ maybe? No, Benden’s—I’m fairly sure of it. I’ll send someone to ask Tiret if he can find it for me. Sea'n and Sammath are already on their way to the Beastmaster at Keroon, to see if he knows whether cane-berry leaf will work on dragons.’

He sent A'tiri to Benden. The oldest of the weyrlings, A'tiri was already craving the opportunity to prove himself and his bronze against Thread. Until N'clas granted that wish, however, he was most often the one selected for any errand that might require a modicum of persuasion, for he possessed a quite disarming grin. Tiret had been more accepting of Elijah and Sea'n than most during their time there, and was very susceptible to a request made with a smile. 

Warmth quickly eased the worst of the pain for both dragon and rider, but as soon as Lenara felt a little better she insisted on going to join Conireth. Though flanked by Meretin and Elijah, she managed the stairs without support. They crossed quickly to the Hatching Ground, ignoring the stares of now returning riders in search of klah at the end of the day’s maneuvers. 

A'tiri and Kerinth too returned, sooner even than Elijah could have hoped, though he was to be disappointed in Tiret’s reply. The egg-binding had indeed occurred but it seemed to have solved itself—at least, no healer remedy was entered in the record, only the symptoms, with never a word as to the uses of cane-berry.

Cautioning A'tiri to hold his tongue, Elijah followed Meretin and Lenara onto the Sands. He spared a fleeting thought, then, for boots with thicker soles, but Meretin had made up his mind to act at once rather than wait for the pain to return in force. 

At Candessa’s direction, her drudges brought a table with towels, a big bowl of oil and a jar of sweetsand. Two of them set a washtub of hot water close at hand and quickly left. K'vret arrived then, almost at a run. Meretin shot a warning glance at Elijah, who went to head him off.

‘The problem is with Conireth,’ he told the Weyrleader. ‘Lenara is in good hands, and she is in no danger at present.’ No sooner had Elijah said it than he realized his mistake. K'vret’s worried frown had begun to relax but now returned in full force.

‘At present? What do you mean, _at present_?’ he demanded.

‘Conireth is having difficulty laying her eggs. If—and only _if_ —Meretin cannot help her, it may be necessary—’ Elijah paused, drew a deep breath, and faced what he had been trying not to think of since Frideth first told him of Conireth’s plight, ‘—it may become necessary to break open the eggs inside her, and remove them piece by piece. I know something of the sort may be done for herdbeasts and runners, and—and most of the dams survive the ordeal…’ He did not need to complete the thought aloud.

Seeing K'vret’s horrified look, he rushed on, ‘For now, though, we are very hopeful that Meretin may succeed. What you can do to help, K'vret, is to keep out prying eyes. Lenara will not like anyone else to see this.’ 

He tipped his head toward the riders already gathered at the entrance, anticipating Conireth’s clutch. K'vret frowned, but nodded assent. However much he may wish to support his weyrmate, he knew Elijah was right, and he could not defy the wishes of two queen-riders. Nor could he keep out Sea'n, who strode in just a few moments later, stripping off his riding gear as he came.

‘Well?’ Elijah demanded. Sea'n’s journey had lost much of its point once it was clear that the cane-berry leaf had indeed worked for Conireth, but Elijah held onto a slight hope that Gerwin may have other useful advice to offer, so the journey might not have been entirely fruitless.

‘He laughed in my face!’ 

‘He _what_?’ Elijah bristled at the insult to his mate.

‘Well, it was just a little funny,’ Sea'n said fairly. ‘He thought I was consulting him about a dragon ailment and was quite flattered—’

‘So he should be!’ Elijah hotly interrupted. ‘As if a Beastman could really know anything about dragons that _we_ don’t!’

‘We don’t know _this_ , Elijah—we don’t know what to do for Conireth. Anyway, when Gerwin realized all I wanted of him was to know was whether the cane-leaf infusion works on egg-bound fowls he just laughed and said that _he_ would wring its neck and eat it. He was positively affronted that I should imagine he dealt with such _lowly_ creatures.’ He mimicked the man’s expression and Elijah reluctantly smiled.

‘But just as I was going back to Sammath, one of the drudges whispered that he might be able to help. He took me aside—not that Gerwin would have noticed. He’d moved on to more _important_ things! The drudge—his name was Frist—told me that his mother swore by the cane-leaf for her fowls, and all of them lived and laid well for turns. I did wonder if he’d been drinking it too—he was remarkably spry for the lines on his face. From the look of him, _she_ probably saw the last Pass!’

‘Well, at least we have our answer,’ Elijah said. 

Unfortunately, Lenara had overheard their conversation. ‘Are you comparing my queen to a _fowl_?’ Her voice was shrill from anxiety.

‘We’re talking about eggs, Lenara—the only difference is that these are bigger,’ Elijah said patiently, ‘and I wouldn’t care if you compared Frideth to a _flea_ if it meant she would be safely delivered of her eggs! And when fowls are egg-bound, you either wring their necks—and no, I am _not_ suggesting that as a remedy here!’ 

Ridiculously, Lenara had looked to be about to challenge him over that, too. He should not have forgotten that the Scourge would sharpen her response. Even a jest intended to lighten the moment, such as the healer teams often used, was unwelcome here. And probably inappropriate too, he thought with a sigh, knowing that his own sense of humor deserted him completely when Frideth’s well-being or comfort was in question. 

‘An alternative sometimes is to push in a finger to break the egg and try to extract it in pieces,’ he finished gently, knowing Lenara really should be prepared. She understood, then, what he could not say, and stood speechless.

‘No, no, no,’ Meretin put in hastily. ‘Breaking the egg is only a very _last_ resort, and chicks are expendable as dragonets can never be! Now then…’ He patted her arm reassuringly, and guided her toward Conireth’s lowered head.

Elijah watched the healer take charge of the Weyrwoman of Telgar as if she were a young and nervous mother-to-be. Under normal circumstances she would never have permitted it but, as Elijah reminded himself, these circumstances were far from normal. 

And Lenara _was_ as nervous and worried as any first-time mother, for this had never happened to her dragon before, nor to any dragon she had ever heard of—and if Meretin failed here, it might possibly prove fatal for Conireth. For now, his voice was helping calm Elijah’s worry as much as Lenara’s. 

‘…the first thing you must remember is that Conireth is already in the best place she can possibly be. The heat of the Sands and the infusion together have relaxed her muscles—just as water bottles and a similar infusion did, for yours—and that is a very good thing. Next, I am going to help her just as I would help you if you were having difficulty bringing forth a child. But this does mean that I shall have to put my hand inside her.’

Sea'n pulled a face at that and raised his brows to know if Elijah really needed him to stay. Elijah stifled a wry smile at his discomfort, and shook his head. His weyrmate had disappeared before Lenara could even begin her reply to Meretin.

She swallowed, looking a little green, and said, ‘I don’t think she would allow that, even if I asked it.’

‘Well, you must ask it on my behalf, for it must be done—and it would be most impolite to do such a thing _without_ asking!’ Meretin said with the trace of a smile. 

Lenara’s in return was wavery but trying to be brave. She leaned into her queen, arms raised in a wide hug. Elijah knew the two were talking and wondered irrelevantly what Conireth’s voice might sound like. 

‘She says you may—may do that,’ said Lenara, just as the queen turned her head and blinked one great eye at Meretin. 

‘I thank you for your cooperation,’ he said, addressing Conireth directly. ‘Now, Elijah and Frideth are here to help you, as am I. You need only hold your tail as high as you can, and try not to move. I’m sure Lenara will appreciate your support, for she is most unhappy to see your pain,’ he said, knowing full well that Lenara needed Conireth’s support every bit as much as the queen would need her rider’s for such an invasive ordeal.

In an undertone to Elijah, he added, ‘I take that as a most encouraging sign. If they will think only of each other, they may forget what it is that I am doing! Are you and Frideth ready?’

_You know what we must do?_

_I know,_ said Frideth. _We can do this, together._

 _Yes—but I am so glad that it is Conireth who needs it and not you._ Elijah caught just the tiniest hint of smugness then, as Frideth thought of her last brood. Forty-three eggs, forty-three hatchlings, a young queen for Benden, and never a problem. He smiled, covertly. _Wicked one! This is your dam that we must help._

 _We will help,_ Frideth replied, her tone repentant now. _We shall do whatever the healer needs._

‘We are ready,’ Elijah said aloud, and picked up the bowl of oil. 

‘Lenara, my dear, Conireth will be happier if she can see you throughout. I suggest you stay right there by her head.’ With Lenara safely out of sight, Meretin stripped off his shirt and oiled his arms right to the shoulder.

‘You wouldn’t do that if you were delivering a baby!’ Elijah said in a low voice.

‘It is all a matter of scale!’ Meretin said with a wry smile. Then, he was serious again. ‘Hold her— _now_!’ 

_Frideth?_ Elijah linked his mind with Frideth’s, and together they seized control of the queen.

 _We have her. Come, Conireth, this is necessary for your eggs._ It was Frideth who spoke, but behind her usual warm presence, Elijah could sense another—proud, reluctant, a little apprehensive.

It was something they had done several times before, working with the healer and his helpers to hold steady an injured dragon through treatment and repair; this stronger mastery was sometimes needed to hold back a dragon that panicked when his or her rider was seriously hurt. 

At Elijah’s nod, Meretin began to apply oil copiously to himself, to Conireth’s vent and within, thrusting his arm so deep that Elijah thought he might disappear. With such a large body on which to work, there was no problem such as Elijah had seen at home in herdbeasts or runners, of the passage being too small to permit maneuverability—Meretin could get both hands well inside. Diligently he turned the egg using touch alone, applying more and more oil until he could be sure all was well coated. 

‘Finished!’ he declared at last, and he was sweating from the effort.

When Elijah released his queen‘s mind, and Frideth in turn slid from Conireth’s, he felt suddenly as if he had carried a heavy weight for many klicks.

 _We did well_ , Frideth observed, _but you are tired now._

_You did most of it—I only helped a little. But it was well done._

_It was well done,_ she agreed. _And now you need Sea’n to help_ you. 

Elijah smiled at the sly tone. Better than any, his dragon knew exactly how Sea'n’s care of him would end. And it was true, he did need Sea'n. He needed the grounding that Sea'n’s love-making would give him against the instability of everything in his life that had once been beyond question. Dragon queens and their riders had been inviolable—almost invulnerable, before this. They had been the certain hope for the future of all, their only hazards the infirmities of age, or Thread itself. 

Now, this unseen _something_ was taking from them their ability to breed—thus threatening the survival of Pern itself—and in so doing, it reduced a great queen and her rider to this indignity.

Meretin was splashing over a tub of sudsy water; it was not only oil he needed to remove from his skin. As he rinsed off and turned to pick up the waiting towel, he peered around the huge expanse of gravid queen. ‘How much of the tea has Conireth drunk, Lenara?’ 

‘Almost half a barrel just now,’ Lenara called back, ‘and more than that, earlier. She liked it much better when Candessa added more sweetener!’ 

Elijah suspected that Conireth preferred it sweet because Lenara did, herself, but whatever worked for them was good.

‘That’s fine, however she will drink it.’ 

‘Meretin? She feels less miserable now. The discomfort is not so great, she says, and I cannot feel it at all.’

‘Please ask if she feels the contractions resuming.’ Meretin, fully clothed once more, joined her by Conireth’s head and bowed his apology and thanks to the queen for her cooperation.

‘I don’t feel anything now,’ Lenara said, ‘but she says they have resumed. They are less painful and more—more productive. She thinks she may—’

The great bulk moved suddenly in the usual bobbing motion of a laying queen—and there behind Conireth lay an egg, its shell glistening with oil and almost transparent. No movement was visible from behind its pattern of darker swirls. 

_That egg is not like mine. It will not hatch,_ Frideth said sorrowfully.

Meretin had warned that the shock and constriction of binding may result in a dead hatchling, even had the egg been viable in the first place—as so many these days were not. Elijah’s gaze met the healer’s now, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Then Meretin’s eyes flew wide and his mouth opened on a soundless _Oh!_ With a grin, Elijah recognized the symptoms of a non-rider to whom a dragon has spoken.

‘She _thanked_ me!’ the healer said in an awestruck whisper. ‘She said _Thank you, healer_ , right here inside my head! Oh my, oh my!’ He bowed once more. ‘Thank _you_ , Conireth. It has been my privilege to attend so distinguished a patient. Please inform Lenara at once should you need my assistance again, though I am hopeful that you may not.’

The queen bobbed again, producing a second egg, and blinked down at Meretin.

_Conireth has been very uncomfortable—and now her eggs are most impatient to be laid!_

_Will it be a full clutch, Frideth?_

_A small one only, and these will not now hatch._

In the end, Conireth laid eleven eggs upon the heated Sands, of which all but the first two would hatch strong dragonets. They were most welcome, for all that they could not be enough. 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	14. Peril

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_… a small figure sliding toward depths that ended in the furious waters of a rock-strewn river bed …_

The afternoon was wonderfully warm. Jacket spread beneath him, shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow, Sea'n lay half-dozing beneath the shade of a spreading bush. He always felt comfortable here, for some reason. Right now, he was lazily digesting a pair of meatrolls and the last few drops of a small skin of ale he’d brought.

Usually, Elijah would be right here alongside him, their dragons hunting together, but Sammath had woken hungry this morning, at least a day earlier than usual. He had caught and devoured the first of what would probably be several juicy kills, and was already circling for the next.

They had flown to their favorite feeding ground, one only he and Elijah seemed to know. An unexpected and quite private mountain meadow, well-concealed amid wild and mountainous country, it lay at a good distance from the nearest hold, and was almost inaccessible on foot. 

As a secret hunting ground, it was ideal. A substantial flight of wherries nested in the surrounding trees, and the flock of woolies was large and well established—presumably wild-bred from escaped stock of that far-off holding. They’d obviously been here a good many turns, so there must be caves somewhere close for complete protection from Threadfall, Sea'n thought idly.

His drowsy calm was destroyed without warning, in the wave of shock and sudden dread that assailed his dragon’s mind and sliced through into Sea'n’s. 

_What? What’s happened? Is it Elijah?_ He leapt up to see Sammath swooping toward him.

_The bridge falls and the boy with it!_

He tried to deny the image Sammath conjured for him then, of a rope bridge that lacked support on one side; of a wooden walkway that hung vertical now; of a small figure sliding toward depths that ended in the furious waters of a rock-strewn river bed. 

_Come, now!_

He grabbed up his riding gear, ran to Sammath, and hastily scrambled aboard. No time to attach safety straps, helmet crammed haphazard on his head, goggles still in hand, jacket tossed between neckridges and simply sat on—no _time_. They had barely left the ground when Sammath leapt for _between_.

They emerged above a clearing among trees. Sea'n knew in some distant part of his mind that he was shivering, but it had far less to do with the chill of _between_ than with the fear that seemed to have wrapped its icy fingers around his heart.

Below them lay the narrowest part of the sheer ravine that split the fertile plateau into West and East, and gave to Long Gorge Hold its name. Sea'n looked down, searching frantically for his son and the remains of the bridge, wondering even in his fear just how such a sturdy construction could possibly collapse under the weight of one small boy. 

The main supporting ropes had proved every bit as substantial as he’d first suspected, and if the lattice-worked sides were knotted from a finer gauge, it was still somewhat thicker than his wrists. The walkway planks were closely grooved to keep feet from slipping, even in the wet. 

He had crossed it himself, with Elijah and Saben, on one of their visits here. Elijah had insisted he must prove himself no coward by going from one side to the other— _and_ back again—despite the insistent trembling of his knees. The tautness around his eyes had told Sea'n he was very much less comfortable than he looked, but with Saben’s chatter their constant accompaniment it was far easier to keep such fear in check.

The boy was obviously well used to the crossing, and sensible of the possible dangers too. To Sea'n’s relief he was able to recite in full the Hold rules for children using the bridge—and he would not allow Elijah to step onto the walkway at all until he too promised to keep one hand on the guide rope at all times.

They paused at the mid-point to peer over—or, in Saben’s case, through—the rough rope lattice, down to the rushing river so far below. The splash and roar of water carried clearly up to them, proving it no deep and silent flow to cushion an unforeseen fall. 

But Sea'n could see that bridge in the distance now—intact still as the day the three of them had crossed it together. Relief and puzzlement together warred with anger at his dragon’s cruel deceit.

 _Sammath, you said—you showed me—but the bridge is_ there _!_

 _I showed you what I saw, Sea'n—but not yet._

Sea'n frowned, not understanding, but he let it go, his eyes still in desperate search of Saben as Sammath held his position high above the gorge. 

Close by the western end of the bridge two groups of the hold’s children were gathered. Sea'n saw his son at last, standing safe and whole—arms folded defiantly, in fact—with the larger group at his back. A confrontation of some kind seemed to be in progress. Voices were thrown shrilly up to Sea’n, a confused babble that echoed sharply from the rocky walls of the ravine.

‘Coward!’ That shout at least was clear. The boy who screeched the word—though by his size scarcely any longer a child—had no more than a handful of cronies ranged behind him. 

Sea'n had noticed this one before today, when he and Elijah came a-visiting. Mactin was his name. It had needed no-one to tell Sea'n his disposition was both sly and jealous—a single glance found it in a peevish face and eyes that begrudged whatever his fellows might possess. 

And Saben, who was the eldest son of the hold, though sired by the rider of a bronze dragon; who was not only visited by that dragon and his queen but had actually ridden and _spoken_ with him—Saben had far more to envy than most. Elijah held a similar opinion of the boy, Sea'n knew, for the first time he’d seen Saben, he was mediating in a quarrel between Mactin and the girl called Wirra. 

‘You _daren’t_!’ Mactin was yelling now, drowning whatever anyone else might say. ‘You’re a cry baby and you can tell your bronze-rider father I said so!’ His followers hurled their gibes almost as one and Sea'n could not make them out. Saben, however, heard them all too well it seemed, for he faced off each one in turn. 

‘Am not! I _shall_ cross it, so there!’ His voice was lighter—younger—but proud and valiant, with only the slightest waver of fear.

Then a girl—would that be Wirra?—cried out, sharp and fearful, ‘No! It’s not safe—Brin just told us so _again_!’

‘Brin’s an old woman! What does he know? Go on, coward!’ 

Taunting shouts drowned the many cries of, ‘My father said so, too!’ ‘And mine!’ ‘And mine!’ ‘And my mother!’

Saben stepped away from his group now. He staggered at the fierce shove Mactin gave him toward the bridge, but he kept on walking. It was surely time that lad, at least, was put to some useful work, Sea'n thought irrelevantly, if he was big and strong—and mean—enough to push the younger children around, and stir up trouble among them. 

And then, Saben was clambering over the barrier that had been erected to prevent just such a crossing. He stood for a moment, and Sea'n clearly heard the blur of shouts—dissenting, encouraging, taunting—that followed him. Then he grasped the guide rope that ran at the level of a child's hand, and walked out onto the bridge. 

‘No, Saben!’ Sea'n’s yell was loud enough to hurt his throat. _Sammath—move!_

_I saw the bridge when it fell, Sea'n, and we were not there. We cannot be there until it falls!_

‘ _SABEN!_ ’ 

But the breeze was too strong at this height for sound to carry downward, and Sea’n’s terrified shouts only blew back at him and away. He watched in horror as his son moved further out above the yawning drop—slowly at first, and then with confidence. 

When he reached the mid point, Saben turned to face his tormentors. They had ranged themselves, Mactin to the fore, across the end of the bridge to cut off escape had he sought it. In a show of bravado—though still holding fast to the guide rope—he jumped up and down on the spot to a ragged cheer from his supporters. 

But triumph turned suddenly to a shriek of fear, and he made a wild attempt to run back to the safety of the land. Mactin and his allies began to jeer and point but, like the rest, fell quickly silent.

Sea'n could not see, at first, just what had caused Saben’s panic and hushed both jeers and cheering. But even as he watched, on the side closest to him a white streak bloomed suddenly along the weathered upper surface of the main supporting rope.

The outer threads were steadily unraveling, flailing apart, laying bare those that lay within—all clean and bright still as the day the twist was made, except at the fissure’s very center. There, black and dirty brown were stained clear through—a deep, dark wound to set off the failure that rippled rapidly outward now, shredding open the massive cable. 

The narrower ropes on that side showed the same discoloration across the same bright cores, as they too began to fail, dragged apart by a weight of timber and of cordage they could never hope to support alone. 

To Sea'n, watching from above, it seemed to happen so very slowly—and yet far faster than any small and frightened boy could run to safety. He looked on in horror as his son slithered, gradually but quite inexorably, toward the side that dipped ever lower above that terrible drop. 

Saben was on his knees now, hands flailing for purchase on wooden boards that slipped away beneath him. It seemed for a moment that he may indeed stay his fall, but even the latticed ropes were thick, and small fingers could not fully grasp them. It was a scrambling, precarious hold at best, and could not last. 

Inevitably he swung wide and tumbled headlong from the trailing dangle of rope and plank that once had been a bridge. His scream was thin and hopeless but it carried all too clearly to his father on the dragon up above.

Wings folded close, Sammath was already diving between steep and rocky walls. _You are ready?_

 _I am…_ Sea’n was not entirely sure he was, but this was his son’s life and he must be, safety straps or no. There was no time for further thought. 

Sammath dipped swiftly in and out of _between_ —feet barely skimming the churning waters of the river bed, or so it seemed to Sea'n—and then Saben was dropping untidily into his father’s arms. He fell heavily, and Sea’n received a sharp elbow in the stomach in return for their rescue, but he wrapped the child tightly to him, eyes closed against the tears of relief. He thought of Abelia at the hold, and how she must worry if she knew, as Sammath blinked out once again.

When he brought them out from the dark and cold, the bronze was circling low, gliding down to land on the wide paved square before the hold doors. 

Saben had burrowed desperately into his father’s arms, small hands clutched fast in the thin shirt Sea'n had entirely forgotten in the terror of the moment. He was still shaking from fear and shock, eyes squeezed tight shut in a tear-streaked face so white the dirt showed shockingly. 

Sea’n hugged him close, nose buried in the warmth of soft, blond curls. His chest filled up with the love he felt for this small person who was and must always be something of a stranger to him, and who yet was dearer to him than any other in his world, saving only Elijah.

 _What did you think you were doing?_ Sea’n wanted to yell at him. But that was for Saben’s mother—and his hold father—to do. He could see Abelia hurrying down the steps, putting aside a gaggle of frantic children to come meet them. Restray too appeared as swiftly from one of the larger outbuildings. Sea'n knew he must relinquish to them this fragile body that had been so nearly lost to him.

His arrival with Saben in his arms, loudly heralded by every child in the hold—first in fear and then in relief—had drawn a greater crowd than any Sea'n had yet seen at Long Gorge West, where even the coming and going of a golden queen and her bronze mate was no longer such a surprising sight. 

A good many of the holdfolk—seeing their holder and his lady fully engaged in a tearful reclaiming, chastising and hugging of their son—were intent on explaining to Sea'n just what had happened to their bridge. 

It took a little while to piece out the facts from amid such a gabble of voices, but Sea'n gathered that, just two nights before, a lightning storm had played above the gorge. The ropes at the center of the leeward side had taken a direct strike and were scorched beyond safety. Rope-making at such a massive gauge was not a landsman’s skill. Repair of the bridge must wait until the major, weight-bearing rope could be brought up from the coast by a trader train. 

The message had been dispatched by runner already, but no runner could carry a rope of so great a heft and length. It would need the combined strength of at least a doubled herdbeast team, and until that could be arranged—and paid for—the holdfolk must spend long hours in travel, by way of the plains below, from one half of Long Gorge to the other. Even then, it would take several sevendays before their bridge could be replaced.

Restray and Abelia had regained control of themselves now, and came to Sea'n, loud with praise and thanks in equal measure. Saben, still a little quiet and pale from shock, stood between them.

His voice was very childish as he looked up at Sea'n and said, ‘Thank you, Sea'n, for rescuing me. I know I shouldn’t have—that I almost—’ Renewed realization of the death from which Sammath and Sea'n had just saved him choked up his throat and the tears began again. 

Sea'n knelt and hugged him. He heard his dragon say, _It was foolish, but you will know better another time, will you not?_ and watched Saben nod vigorously.

‘Promise?’ Sea'n asked.

‘I promise!’ A whisper, low but heartfelt.

‘Will you not stay and share the evening meal?’ Restray was saying now. ‘We should be honored, bronze-rider. And I expect Saben would very much like to sit and talk with you—little though he deserves any reward whatever for such reckless folly, dare or no!’ 

Sea'n refused the invitation to eat, but welcomed the warmth of hot klah to ease the shiver of potential loss that still crawled along his spine. It was good to hear from Saben of all his deeds—and the occasional misdeed—since their last visit together. Sammath may be convinced he would Impress a dragon, but Restray was taking no chances. He had begun already the formal training in the duties and obligations of holding the boy would need—of the blood or no—were he to prove the most suitable successor here at Long Gorge West. 

Saben had much to tell of this new teaching and of the many other things he had found to interest him since last they met. He had recovered far more quickly from his fright than any of his parents—two of whom had too recently been informed, in many high and panicked, childish voices, that their son had fallen to his death. 

Sea'n could tell, however, that some form of measured retribution would be exacted soon enough, for this latest and most dangerous escapade—a reckless holder-apparent could never be approved, after all. 

But growing within him now was an irrational need to ground himself—and there was only one person with whom Sea'n could do that. 

He brought his visit to its end much sooner than usual, pleading the need to hurry back to Elijah. ‘Sammath has told him where we are, of course, but probably not enough of what happened to ease his mind over what might have been.’

 _I told Elijah all was well—I would not let him worry!_ chided Sammath.

 _But I need to get back to him now!_ Sea'n retorted, even as he said his farewells to the holder and his lady, and bent to receive his son’s parting kiss. He buried his face in Saben’s hair, then, to hide a sudden blush at Sammath’s knowing mind-smirk.

_Hush, you! He is my mate and I need—_

_You need to know he is safe._ Sammath understood, of course he did. _Frideth guards him always but you need to hold him close now._

Sammath had drawn aside from the crowd of folk that gathered before the hold, of course—knowing and regretting, as must all dragons, how fearful most humans were of their kind. Sea'n was making his way to join him there, but turned and waited when a cracked and dusty voice called to him—a late arrival emerging from the copse beyond.

‘Bronze-rider Sea'n?’ 

‘Yes?’ 

The speaker was an old man, a herdsman as much by the ripe, warm smell of him as by his crook; his knots were so old, you could scarce have told his calling from their faded colors. He probably should have been out in the fields with his charges still, but he was not the only worker to have hurried back to the hold on the strength of rumor alone.

‘I just—I wanted to thank you. Like, for bein’ there—an’ to say—to say how sorry I am!’

For no reason that Sea'n could think of, the old man both looked and sounded somewhat ashamed.

‘It was a very foolish and dangerous thing for Saben to do, but I do not see why you should be sorry for it,’ he said.

‘I warned they young ’uns off once, see, but I thought they was gone off back to the hold. I’d the beasts to take to fresh pasture down t’other side of the spinney then, an’ I’d no way of knowin’ any of ’em would come back. I should’ve—’ he broke off, clearly unsure what more he could have done. 

‘I seed you up there, hoverin’ on that great dragon o’ yourn, but I thought you’d just come a-visitin’—like usual only without his queen this time. I didn’t know you was watchin’ the bridge, till they was all a-shriekin’ and a-hollerin’, an’ on a sudden the pair of you was gone. I knowed then what must’ve happened, an’ next thing, you was back and up above the hold.’ The old man was shaking slightly as he spoke, and Sea'n knew this was more to him than mere excitement over a danger averted.

‘I didn’t know, though. I didn’t know it was young Saben as might have—’ He couldn’t bring himself to say the word aloud. Taking a deep breath he said, ‘My, that was a good thing you was there, bronze-rider!’ 

Someone called ‘Brin!’ then, and Brin wished him a good day and shuffled off in answer to his name. But Sea'n could see the old man would not easily let go the guilt that his warning had gone unheeded, a tragedy prevented only by the unlooked for arrival of a bronze dragon. Saben clearly had as many friends or more among the adults of Long Gorge Hold as among his quarrelsome peers. 

Sammath sped them quickly home to Telgar, draconic laughter rumbling quietly beneath the tight clutch about his neck. Sea’n had time now to realize the regrettably unused state of his gear and safety straps. 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	15. Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…smoky sage shot suddenly through with a sharp, golden-brown hunger…_

'Elijah?’

Sea'n’s voice was urgent as his footsteps came hurrying, almost stumbling, from the outer ledge where Sammath landed.

Elijah peered out from around Frideth’s bulk. Her own sleek shape once more, she was still plenty big enough to screen him completely. Much as he was looking forward to her next flight, he relished this time they had—their freedom to ride the wind together before she rose to mate once more. For now, she was his again, with nothing to distract from their love for each other and for their mates. 

His hands were slick with the oil he had that moment finished spreading. He kept up the habit of oiling Frideth’s belly. It may no longer be needed to ease the tight stretch of skin as the eggs grew inside her, or to keep it supple as she resumed her own sleek shape, but it kept its own purpose. It reaffirmed their bond to each other even beyond his to Sea'n, or hers to Sammath. It was a part of their day that was special, just for them.

‘Elijah! Where are you?’

‘I’m here—what is it? What’s the matter?’ He set down the bowl of oil, coming quickly to meet Sea'n in the middle of their weyr. ‘Sammath said you had suddenly to go to Long Gorge Hold then, a little later, that all was well, but he didn't say why. What’s happened? Is something wrong with Saben? Is he sick—or hurt— _what_?’ 

Anxiety sharpened his own voice now, for Sea'n still did not reply. He just stood there, staring, his face pale and wild and somehow lost. ‘Sea'n, tell me what’s wrong!’

When he spoke at last, Sea'n’s voice was hoarse. ‘Nothing, now.’ 

He threw his riding gear carelessly aside—a warning in itself that something was badly amiss—and dragged Elijah into his arms. He buried his face in the crook of Elijah’s neck making his skin twitch at the icy coldness of his cheek. He didn’t move again, just held on so tight it was hard to breathe. Sea'n’s breath too was all deep, sucking gasps and he clung as if Elijah might escape him. 

Elijah nestled his face into chilled and wind-blown hair, hugging with elbows only, hands angled aside still to keep the oil on them from smearing Sea'n’s… 

_Shirt?_

Why would Sea'n come through _between_ in nothing more than a shirt? 

‘Tell me!’ he demanded. 

But Sea'n’s reply was only distraught gasps against Elijah’s skin. Slowing already, yet Elijah could make sense of only a single word, breathed over and again: _safe_. 

‘Safe? Saben is safe? Why wouldn’t he be? What are you saying, Sea'n? What _happened_?’

Sea'n raised his head enough that words escaped at last for Elijah to hear and make sense of. 

‘The bridge—Saben was on the bridge and it fell. Not hurt, though—he’s safe. Saben is safe, yes.’ 

‘The bridge _fell_?’ For one endless moment, Elijah’s own stomach-clenching fear of that bridge took him over—an all-too vivid taste of the terror Saben must have known as rope and plank gave way beneath him. ‘What— _how_ —?’

‘He is safe,’ Sea'n quickly repeated, ‘safe with Abelia and Restray, but I need _you_.’ He pulled back just a little, hands still clutched at Elijah’s shoulders. Their sharp quiver flowed into him as Sea'n just held and watched.

‘Sea'n?’ 

No answer, but the strange stillness gave way to sudden action, and Sea'n was kissing him. Chilled palms cupped the sides of Elijah’s face, the kisses falling fast and frantic. 

All may be well with Saben, thank the skies, but it was far from so with Sea'n. Words, though—explanations—must wait. Right now, meeting him with lips and tongue and half-formed sounds of reassurance was all Sea'n needed of him. 

The flurried breathing gradually slowed, becoming steadier and more intent, as Sea'n’s kisses melted from desperation to tenderness.

At last he stepped back, just one short pace. ‘Need you,’ he said again, and his voice was hoarse. Elijah’s shiver was no longer from the chill that seemed still to flow from Sea'n’s whole being.

He reached to hold Sea'n properly, no matter the sharding oil, but Sea'n took his fingers and curled them into fists. He was not so far steeped in this strange wildness as Elijah had believed, if he could think of clothes as anything other than a nuisance here, but Elijah could accept whatever would bring his Sea'n back to him. 

At least he showed purpose once more. He had shed the helplessness of loss—so unlike Sea'n that Elijah worried for him as he never had before.

He waited as Sea'n studied him, his face relaxing into a smile as Sea'n reached hands to unfasten his shirt. The cloth slid down to hang loose and Elijah realized the purpose of his curled fists.

Sea'n’s need was wholly changed, and for the better. The disquiet in his eyes had shifted to pure desire—smoky sage shot suddenly through with a sharp, golden-brown hunger. 

He smiled, slow and intent, and Elijah’s shiver became outright anticipation. A few deft touches to ties and buttons, a tug here and there—quicker than he’d have thought possible, he stood before Sea'n completely naked but for the draping shirt still caught up on his arms. Naked and quite obviously ready for whatever Sea'n had in mind.

Sea'n’s knuckle crooked beneath his chin, gently tipping Elijah’s head back, just a little. ‘Close your eyes,’ he said, and Elijah did. Whatever Sea'n wanted of him, he would do, and it would be wonderful—all the more so for the strangeness Sea'n had shown since he came home. 

Even better for not knowing what Sea'n would do until it happened.

He waited eagerly through several moments of…nothing. A swift, illicit glance through slitted lashes showed Sea'n simply watching him. Elijah had grown used to this. When they lay together after making love, Sea'n would prop himself on one elbow and gaze down at him for minutes on end. His looking then, though, involved fingers lightly stroking and soft, nonsensical words of love.

Sea'n was not touching now, and there was barely a sound within the weyr. Definitely not the quiet sigh of cloth to tell him Sea'n was undressing too. He wanted Sea'n as naked as he was—and soon.

Elijah was tempted to reach for him, but Sea'n had curled his hands out of commission. They were slick with oil already, though to Elijah’s regret, it was not the special blend they used in their bed. This was thinned to spread wide and easily, with no smell beyond its own heavy warmth. Still, it would serve Sea'n’s need—their need—here, if it must. 

He tried to read the sounds that followed then. A receding rap of boots on stone, the clink of a buckle away behind him—a riding strap across the inner curtain, he guessed, and was glad. He would neither permit nor forgive any interruption in this. The boots again, a small diversion in their fall before Sea'n was pacing back to him. 

The sudden chill grip about his wrist made Elijah jump. 

His palm and fingers were turned and patted onto the slip-slide of oil. A single, scented breath told him Sea'n had added more to what little was left in the bowl. It came from the supply they kept beside their bed, for the fragrance was mostly of crushed josen-seed. Even outside their weyr, that scent alone could make him react in ways he must resist until a better and more private time. 

Sea'n took and patted his other hand now. A chink as he set aside the bowl, then he held Elijah’s wrists once more, guiding each hand to where he wanted it to lie—for the moment, at least. The left he carefully settled on Elijah’s chest, just barely brushing the nipple there. The right he laid—palm open, fingers pointing inward and down—on Elijah’s naked belly.

‘Let me see,’ Sea'n said then. This time, boots on stone told Elijah he had stepped away—if only far enough to watch.

‘S—’ Elijah’s mouth was dry already from the too-sharp panting of his breath. He licked his lips and had to swallow before he could get his question out. ‘See what?’

‘Let me see you do it for yourself.’

‘What? But—’ His face was suddenly hot, and he wasn’t entirely sure he could do this, but if it was what Sea'n needed here… The heat rose all across his skin, a flush spreading rapidly outward and down. His entire body was primed and waiting—like a dragon poised on the edge of a mating flight. ‘E-everything?’

‘Everything, Elijah. I want to see.’ Sea'n’s voice had sunk to a rough whisper—pure provocation that sent slippery fingers fanning out of their own accord across Elijah’s belly, painting his skin with the glisten of oil that clung between. The heat of him drew out the familiar scent and worked its full effect, as swift and as marked as ever. 

He heard Sea'n’s breath quicken. How could he stand so close and yet not touch as Elijah wanted him to? So close that sharp breaths cooled the glistening trails and kept Elijah’s skin alight with need.

He gasped, and his eyes began to open, but Sea'n was faster, laying fingers gently on their lids, a light kiss to his mouth. ‘Touch for me,’ he said.

Elijah could do that. His only regret was how brief the kiss had been. Once again his hands were moving with no need to think of _why_ or _where_. One slick and sensuous thumb plied lightly at his nipple—as much a tease for Sea'n, though Elijah’s fingers closed around its instant rising. A gentle take and roll quickly sharpened to a tormenting tweak, while the hand at his belly slid downward fast, taking hold where most he needed it. 

His fist curled tight, moved slow—the way Sea'n did it, the way Elijah liked so much. The slide of oil between almost let him believe it was Sea'n’s touch, not his own. 

Almost.

Was the problem simply his fight to stay upright here and keep on touching for Sea'n? Or was it that he craved far more than his own hand? Sea'n’s hands were bigger, maybe even more knowing, their skill born of dedicated practice. His span was wider, too—broad enough for a callused thumb to swirl sweet agony through liquid readiness over Elijah’s tip, palm working masterful circles along his length, fingers reaching down to play low and dirty…

Want spiked to instant need, but what he needed now was Sea'n. 

Words escaped him, tight and desperate—half-whine, all complaint. ‘I—it’s not—I _can’t_ —’ 

He staggered, hands flying outward for balance, though his eyes had barely time to flick open before Sea'n caught him. ‘Trust me,’ he said—as if it even needed saying. 

Elijah let them fall shut again as he was guided the few steps to their bed and gently lowered. He waited, not knowing if Sea'n wanted him to continue, half hoping he did not, for he was ready and past ready for more. Despite the overwhelming ache of desire he was aware of cloth falling, boots flying to land with a clunk, as Sea'n stripped off at last. 

The bed moved beneath him and he gasped as Sea'n finally touched him. It was not the welcome slide of skin against his own, however. A single touch only—too fast and fleeting by far to match his need. _Oh_. Not simply a touch but a _gathering_ … Sea'n had—

Elijah opened his mouth, a silent plea to suck those fingers clean. Too late—Sea'n had done that himself. Now, he was offering Elijah’s taste back to him in a kiss. 

Then he took and folded Elijah’s fingers together, guiding them back to dip into the bowl once more. 

Elijah hesitated. He had never done this for himself. It was always Sea'n’s fingers inside him, broad and strong and knowing.

Still, he dipped obediently, but then Sea'n was moving to lie beside him. He held on to Elijah’s wrist—and he did not guide it where Elijah expected. Sea'n was…he was bringing it toward _himself,_ the back of Elijah’s hand sliding easily along the soft skin of Sea'n’s inner thigh.

Elijah’s eyes snapped open.

Surprise—shock, even—and a sudden surge of desire that was almost too much. The realization, though, was enough to bring him back from the edge. Bring him to a place where thought was possible again. Where Elijah could recognize what a momentous— _plea? offering?_ —Sea'n was making here. He sat up hastily. 

Sea'n lay next to him, thighs apart, simply waiting. There was desire in his face—desire and need, with only a trace of doubt hovering beneath.

He had been aroused since Sea'n’s distress turned suddenly to need, but suddenly Elijah was hard enough to shatter shell. He wanted Sea'n more fiercely than ever before—and Sea'n wanted him _this_ way…

‘Sea'n?’

Sea'n only nodded, eyes fixed on Elijah’s—dark now with all the intensity of desire. Elijah suspected he might change his mind—lose his nerve—if he had to say it aloud. And Elijah couldn’t let that happen. 

He wanted this. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought he would have. He had not even known how much he wanted it, not until it was offered. He would never turn down such a gift, but he needed to show Sea'n the same all-consuming pleasure Sea'n gave to him.

It would likely be over all too soon—maybe as soon as he felt Sea'n’s heat close around him. He couldn’t hope to have anything like Sea'n’s stamina or his skill, but he would make this good for Sea'n. He _would_. And he would do it his way, and in his time.

Elijah was never less than desperate to be taken—even that first time, Sea'n made sure desire overcame his fear before ever mating him in truth. That was what he wanted for Sea'n here. 

His own need must wait. If Sea'n would cede control to him, Elijah would prove himself equal to the challenge. He took several slow, determined breaths, crowding his mind with the chill of winter flight, with Saben and his fear for what might have been—even the dread that beset him before Frideth’s maiden flight. Anything to let him give to Sea'n, before he took for himself.

Impatiently he shook off the hampering shirt, its purpose served already, and rose to his knees beside Sea'n—fingers still dripping with the oil Sea'n wanted him to use. So he would, but not as Sea'n intended it, not yet. Sea'n lay watching him—not-so patiently waiting, if that constant twitch was any indication. 

Elijah stilled it with his hands—firm grip, just a couple of smooth, short strokes for now. He would not hurry, no matter the heavy warmth that surged eagerly into his touch. Sea'n’s eyelids fluttered, then closed, and Elijah swallowed thickly at the trust in his face. 

His turn to set the pace—where and when to stroke and tease, to lick and kiss, in places and in ways he never had before. Skin-hungry lips and fingers wanted far more than his usual wandering clutch to ground him under Sea'n’s skilled caresses—never enough before Sea'n’s own need crested to overwhelm them both.

His turn for the slow brush of lips to the hollow of Sea'n’s throat, over the fine skin of his inner arms, along the tender cusp betwixt thigh and torso. A damp and loving drag, where and when he pleased, willfully oblivious to the silent surge of Sea'n’s desire—marked in passing only in a purse of lips and the insistent tease of blown breath, more promise than proof. 

It was a torment as drawn-out and delicious as he could make it—just the way Elijah liked. The way Sea'n liked it too, it seemed, for he was breathing hard. He was quieter, though—his response all sharp gasps and panting breaths. Much quieter than the moans Elijah could never stifle—never really tried, when they spurred Sea'n on so well. 

But the quiver of skin beneath his mouth and hands clearly told Elijah just how tight Sea'n’s control must be to yield himself this way.

More oil now, dipped with trembling fingers to trickle where it was most needed. Tips only in its wake, to and fro over wrinkled skin, the speed and catch of taut breaths guiding his touch. Yet more oil, pushing cautiously inward, surprise when Sea'n opened readily to admit a finger. Elijah almost missed the hushed sound he made, so far from pain that Sea'n pushed back against him, his demand for more no less needy for its near silence.

Surprised remembrance, too, at how warm and smooth it was. So warm and smooth and _tight_ , he was almost undone by the thought of that satin heat clenched all around him… He thought once more of snow, of fear and dread and loss—anything to stave off his own inexorably rising need. 

A second finger, stroking steadily, not sure he could find—

Then Sea'n bowed upward from the bed and Elijah knew he had found.

Knowing just how intense it could be, Elijah froze, more than disappointed, when Sea'n panted, ‘No more!’ 

He could not understand why so glorious a touch would change Sea'n’s mind. But Sea'n knocked his hand toward the oil and gasped out, ‘You!’

Elijah splashed it over himself then, quick and messy, determined this should be the best for Sea'n that he could make it. He waited a moment, but Sea'n did not turn. He wanted it this way—to see Elijah as he’d seen him that first time. 

They were bound up then in Frideth’s maiden flight, when Sammath had captured his virgin queen. In the natural order of things, her rider must be taken by the rider of the victorious bronze. 

This, for Sea'n, would be far from nature, for queen did not take bronze. 

Elijah banished the thought from his mind. Here were only Sea'n and Elijah—no protest from their dragons, only the warmth of acceptance and all-encompassing love. He pushed forward steadily with only Sea'n’s reactions to guide him.

An initial gasp, a frown betraying hurt that mattered not at all once Elijah was fully within. Shock again and relentless tremors each time a change of angle hit that spot head on. 

Slow drag out, the tight cling of Sea'n reluctant to let him leave. The reverse—Sea'n not just opening to Elijah but drawing him eagerly back in. Faster and still faster until all was _heat_ and _want_ and _now!_

Soon enough—too soon—spatters of white spilled suddenly between them, and Sea'n’s face squeezed tight, completely abandoned to the ecstasy sweeping through him. His lips fell open and wet, and his eyes refocused to concentrate on Elijah. He was smiling, smiling up at him as if he was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen.

And Elijah gasped at the firm clench that sent him flying after Sea'n like a dragon winging its way toward the sun. 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	16. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

  
_…I didn’t know_ I _was the rider up there on Sammath until I was…_  


Next morning, a quick peek through heavy eyelids at the balance of light and shadow across the weyr told Sea'n he had woken late. He stretched, relishing the unaccustomed lassitude, no matter it was shot through with a residual burn. He suspected it would remind him, this entire day, what he—or more specifically, what _Elijah_ —had done yesterday. Though he reciprocated later, of course. He smiled, eyes still closed.

It was scarcely surprising they were tired, he thought. They had been very…busy—though they had not left the weyr at all. No, that was not quite true. Elijah went down to seek food for them, so late the caverns were deserted. There was a covered tray waiting for them, clearly set out by Candessa. 

It was a very good thing Fall was tomorrow and not today, Sea'n realized. He could tell already that to sit Sammath for any length of time at all would be uncomfortable enough—and given the need for so many acrobatic twists and turns when your dragon was chasing and flaming Thread… Small wonder the green-rider males of his wing were occasionally not quite at their best. 

Regardless of all else, Sammath was still hungry, Sea'n could feel it. They needed to complete their interrupted hunt before Fall. Still, a visit to their meadow—hardly more than a quick in and out of _between_ , with a straight flight home—should not be a problem. 

He rolled to the center of the bed, missing Elijah’s warmth already and surprised not to have woken as entangled as they so often were. He opened his eyes then, for Elijah was not there. 

When he raised his head to listen, their weyr was silent and empty apart from himself and Sammath out on Frideth’s ledge. For a moment he was uneasy. _Where—? Why would—?_

 _Elijah is with the healer,_ Sammath reassured him. _One of the weyrlings fell from his green and has broken limbs. Frideth is calming Cilith. It was not her fault—the boy was careless. The straps were not properly buckled in place. He will not again forget to check them!_

Relieved, Sea'n hauled himself out of bed at last, walking cautiously to the bathing room. He eased himself down into the water and smiled, thinking again of this new love-making. It was not something he had ever thought about for himself, but it would not have been truth to deny his enjoyment of it. 

At some point he had wondered— _very_ briefly—if it would make him somehow like a green-rider. The only difference, though—apart from the obvious—was that he felt more connected than ever to Elijah. Their dragons ought to have objected, he thought then. Queens didn’t take bronzes, after all. But in the moment of ecstasy, when Sammath had been with him as always, there was only acceptance and love. 

How strange that something so good could result from such fear.

He heard the echo of Sammath’s mind-shout once again, and for a moment his insides clenched again from same cold terror.

_The bridge falls and the boy with it!_

But that—he remembered now—that was _not_ what he had seen when they came out of _between._

_Sammath? You told me the bridge was falling and Saben with it. Yet when we got there, the bridge was intact and Saben was still arguing with those trouble-makers._

_I saw it in my mind._

_The way that you saw Frideth before she rose to mate?_

_Yes, but different._

_How different?_

_The bridge had fallen already. I flew back to the time before the boy walked out onto the bridge._

_You flew_ back _?_ Water splashed out onto the floor as Sea'n pushed himself suddenly upright in the pool. 

_We needed to be there in a time before the bridge fell. I flew to that time._

_You can fly to a time that has already happened?_ Sea'n could hear his own incredulity. __

 _Yes._ Sammath sounded slightly surprised at himself but it was nothing to what Sea'n felt. He stepped out of the water and grabbed for a towel, then found himself stock still—dripping on the floor, unable to decide what to ask next. 

_Can you also fly to a time that has not happened yet?_ he tried at last.

There was a pause. Sea'n sensed the confusion in Sammath’s mind before he answered.

_I see some things that have not yet happened but we cannot go there._

_You saw Frideth before she rose. We flew to that time._ Sea'n was scrambling into shirt and pants now. He had to see this—know this—for himself.

 _No,_ Sammath contradicted. _We flew to_ where _it would happen. I can do that._

 _Can we go to another time, a past time, now? You are not too hungry? I promise we shall go straight to the meadow to hunt, afterward._ He pulled on his boots and shrugged into his riding jacket.  
_  
If it is not too many turns away, I think it will not make much difference. You must first show me the_ when _to which we must return._

There was one very distinct _when_ that Sea'n would very much have liked to revisit—but he could not ask that. It would be more than a little perverse to spy upon himself the first time that he took Elijah—the supreme moment that changed his life and led, eventually, to his present happiness. Also, there was the fact that they had _not_ been there, and he knew it. 

He doubted he would even have noticed someone standing over them taking notes, at that moment, but no-one in the Weyr had seen them, either. Every rider in the Weyr was on high alert that day—the maiden flight of a queen as particular in her choice as Frideth was a huge event. If Sammath had somehow mysteriously landed him on Frideth’s ledge right then, they could not have been missed, and great would have been the clamor. 

There was none. Sammath was not on Frideth’s ledge that day—he was mating his queen, away up in the sky and many klicks away. Sea'n must choose a time they had actually witnessed, one they could be present for. And from a distance too, he decided. He didn’t even want to think about what might happen if he came so close to his past self that they might meet…

_Am I to tell Elijah where we go?_

_N-no. At least, tell him you need to finish yesterday’s hunting. I’ll explain the rest later._

That would depend on what else there was to tell, of course. And even more on whether Sea'n’s uneasy feeling was about to be justified. 

He climbed aboard, lowering himself cautiously into place on Sammath’s neck and making sure to fasten all riding gear and straps in place—still unsettled after yesterday’s flurry of reckless flying. As Sammath soared upward into empty air above the Weyr, he searched his memory for another time and place he could clearly picture. A time they might truly have—

_Oh!_

Quickly, Sea'n fixed the picture in his mind. Sammath took it from him and rumbled a laugh.

 _You will wish to hold tight now!_ he said as he blinked them into _between._

Sea'n’s stomach clenched tight as the absolute emptiness closed around them. He had not given this enough thought. He had leapt to a conclusion based on very few facts. He should never have—

Then, just as he had convinced himself his recklessness had lost them both _between_ for ever, the air was already warm around them—warmer than was ever found in Telgar’s lands. 

Sammath was sweeping low along a coastline, over golden sand that rolled for klicks both north and south. The sea was a brighter blue than any inland lake, but equally calm this day, only wavelets lapping lazily at the shore where a great work was afoot.

A group of children was engaged in happily scooping, placing and patting sand. Some were strengthening buttresses, others modifying window openings with shutters traced back against the walls in rows of tiny shells; some were just now paving the forecourt with wide, flat pebbles, all putting the finishing touches to a huge and fanciful construction. 

It was not as if any of them had ever seen it in reality, so this was a combination of every tale they’d ever been told, and all they’d ever learned from those who had actually visited Igen Hold. There were its wide, flat ramparts and soaring drum tower, its array of outcropping stone buildings and its gather field—tented here in stick-draped seaweeds.

The scene was unfamiliar to Sea'n at first, from this distance and this height, but then two boys and a girl emerged from the fringe of flowering greenery, just inland of the proud edifice a-building. They carried bundles of slender sticks, and Sea'n suddenly knew despite all distance that these were garlanded in blossoms of as many different colors as they had been able to find—gather banners to decorate the soon-to-be-magnificent sand-hold.

Sammath approached them, his shadow traveling fast and black along the pale gold sands beneath. Before ever it reached him, one of the boys looked up, just as Sea'n remembered. He dropped his sticks, shouting to his friends, pointing up at Sammath, and waving madly. 

Even from high in the air Sea'n knew the wide smile on Seanachan’s young face. This was the first time in his young life that ever he had seen a dragon closer than a tiny mote against the vastness of sky. The first time he really saw a dragon and rider pair, it had been himself and Sammath—and he had not known it!

He remembered that day so clearly, now—remembered just what it was like to be down there on the beach as the child he was then. 

They had made an early start despite the restday, for the tide was on the turn then, leaving the sand wet and heavy but ideal for building. He remembered stealing silently from the hold, a meatroll in each hand to eat along the way, pockets stuffed with tubers to roast in the ashes of their fire. He remembered the long emptiness of beach, only the dark sail of a skiff visible on the milky blue horizon—making for the fishhold with its overnight catch. 

The smell and crackle of burning driftwood collected from above the tide line, and the deliciousness of tubers when at last they could be fished out—shrunken black or wrinkled, ashy pale, depending on how attentive the baker—split open and devoured. Eager mouth and fingers stinging from the heat, hunger the only seasoning. 

The labor of building, the arguments—the fights, even—and then, the supreme event of their entire day. The moment when a bronze dragon swooped down over them, his rider waving—it had seemed to every one of them—his approval of their industry.

Seanachan and his friends had waved and cheered and shouted, and Sea'n waved back and asked Sammath for the return glide he knew they had made—low enough this time that Sea'n could recognize each one of the faces now for those of the boys and girls he had grown up with at Coorabie Bay Hold. Then, as he had done those many turns ago, Sammath whisked them quickly into _between._

Sea'n found himself breathing deeply of far cooler air, above their meadow and beneath the rain-spitted skies of Telgar.

Sammath set him down at once, swooping away to take up his much delayed hunt. Sea'n’s constant awareness of his dragon’s health took note of a dimming of the bronze hide—faint enough but distinct. It bespoke a dragon denied a meal for longer than the days since Sammath last ate well.

Sea'n knew the risk they had taken, though Sammath had foreseen no danger in the attempt. Next time, of course, he would make sure Sammath ate his fill before…

The full impact of what they had just done—and what they must do soon if not precisely next—landed squarely upon him, then. The possibilities left him breathless. 

They had emerged unscathed from their leap backward in time. Sea'n felt no different. The only measurable effect on Sammath was the sharpening of his appetite, which was understandable enough. True, they had travelled only a few years into their own time, but they were both unharmed. 

And what if they could travel further back than that… _much_ further back? As far, perhaps, as a time when healers knew of and could cure this thing that ailed the queens—the malady that, unchecked, might well mean the destruction of every man, woman and child on Pern.

But then—what if, in the attempt to make that journey, he and his dragon became lost in the endless black cold of _between_? If, in their need to succor Pern, they were swallowed by the utter and eternal absence of light and air and warmth and _…everything_?

The discovery that Sammath might be able to take that flight filled Sea'n with great hope—and an even deeper dread. 

For three whole days he thought of little else, keeping their feat and its implications tight within him. Somehow, he managed to hide his concern, helped by Elijah’s insistence that they fly to Long Gorge West so he could see for himself that Saben was indeed safe. Sea'n had not yet told him the whole truth of the rescue—Elijah’s usual need to know diverted and delayed by the new aspect of their lovemaking. Sea'n had said only that Sammath saw the bridge fall and had flown them to save Saben.

For two of those days he suppressed it, the feeling—the growing _conviction_ , deep inside—that it was no accident Sammath had discovered how to go back into time. 

Only on the third could he begin to accept it.

His bronze had known from the beginning, if he could not explain why.

 _We do have to leave here,_ Sammath had told him as they flew down into Igen for the very last time as Weyrleader and leading bronze, _for we shall be needed._

And now, they must leave Telgar. It was for _this_ that they were needed; for this they had come. The sublime weyr-mating Sea'n had found here was, perhaps, his reward in advance for what would they must do now. What they must now attempt, at least.

Truth was that the very thought of it scared him so much that he _could_ not share it, not even with Elijah, until he’d had time to think it through. Until he could think it through without cold terror overcoming his resolve. 

Now, that time was ended—it must be, for here was Meretin, visiting in their weyr and looking somehow diminished. The queens’ disorder was not under discussion but it didn’t need to be. Sea'n knew the healer carried his failure with him always, now—his shame at being unable to help either riders or queens. 

The fault was not his, nor that of any healer or their Hall. Their craft simply no longer possessed either the knowledge or the skills that might somehow have corrected such a sickness. Those were blessings to be found only in Pern’s past. 

It was time for Sea'n to speak out.

‘Elijah, I—’ he began, so solemnly that Elijah and the healer both looked inquiringly at him, ‘I didn’t quite tell you the truth of exactly how Sammath and I rescued Saben…’ 

When Elijah frowned he went on hurriedly, ‘Only about _how_ Sammath did it—the rest was true enough. But, he didn’t arrive _just_ in time to catch Saben when he fell. He—he took me back to the time _before_ that—before Saben even walked out onto the bridge. We were there, watching. 

‘I listened to that stupid boy, Mactin, taunting Saben, stirring trouble among the children, the way we always knew he did when he wasn’t being watched. I heard the boys yelling and pushing, the girls shrieking and at least one of them crying. We were there for all of that, hovering too far off and high up to do anything. I tried to shout to Saben, to get Sammath to stop him, but he only said he had seen the fall already. We couldn’t stop it from happening, because we weren’t there—at the bridge—when he saw it fall, so we couldn’t be, until it had happened. We couldn’t rescue Saben until we did—until he had already fallen…’

‘You couldn’t be there until he’d fallen?’ Elijah asked, wrinkling his nose in the effort to understand. ‘But Sea'n, you _were_ there, watching.’

‘Yes, but not at the bridge—we were somewhere beyond the scope of Sammath’s fore-seeing, I think,’ Sea'n said with a frown. He shook his head in a vain hope that things might seem clearer. ‘I don’t claim that this makes sense to me, either—I’m only telling you what he told me!’

‘Sammath took you _back_ , to the time _before_ the bridge fell?’ Meretin’s voice was incredulous. 

‘But how—’ Sea'n raised a hand to forestall Elijah’s question.

‘Wait—there is more. The following day, before we went back to the meadow for him to finish his hunt, I asked Sammath to take me back again—on purpose this time—to a place and time I remembered for him. It was about twenty turns ago, I think. I forget exactly how old I was, I just recalled one particular day, and suddenly we were there. I saw myself when I was a boy. I saw myself down on the beach, and he— _I_ —saw me too, up in the air on Sammath. It was the first time I ever saw a dragon and his rider that close!’

‘You did _what_? Sea'n! That’s sharding dangerous! Almost the very first thing N'clas told us, when we were learning to go _between_ , was that you could—’ Elijah stopped short, eyes wider than ever in dismay.

‘—fall right out of time and never find your way back, if your visualization was lazy and not properly focused?’ Sea'n finished for him, knowing exactly what N'clas must have said, the sense if not the words. ‘R'bant told us just the same. He scares each new clutch of weyrlings witless with tales of riders slipping through time, to find the Weyr full of dragons they don’t know, doomed to wander like shadows, lost to time forever. As a threat, it works fine—at least, I don’t _know_ of any rider who has ever dared do it by choice.’

‘Dragons can fly through _time_?’ Meretin asked, clearly still having trouble with the notion.

‘ _Back_ into time, at least,’ Sea'n agreed, ‘provided you give him a clear picture of exactly where and when to go—and I _did_ ,’ he emphasized, but he could see Elijah was still torn between shock and anger at what Sea'n really didn’t think had been that big of a risk at all.

‘I don’t think you could go back to just anywhere, though,’ he said firmly, hoping to stave off the storm he could see brewing in Elijah’s eyes now. ‘Sammath and I couldn’t suddenly appear when—’ he paused to think of an example, ‘—when Elijah Impressed Frideth, because I _know_ we weren’t here then. I’m fairly sure we were promised to Igen Hold’s gather that day. But, I _could_ fly over myself when I was a child, because it had already happened—I just didn’t know we’d done it until we did it! I remember seeing that dragon and his rider, but I didn’t know _I_ was the rider up there on Sammath until I was. You have to _go_ there to remember you _were_ there.’ 

‘Look, Elijah, I can guess what you’re thinking but it wasn’t as bad as it seems. I wouldn’t even have tried it if Sammath had seemed worried, but he wasn’t. He treated it like any other trip _between.’_

 _It was quite simple,_ Sammath put in. _Sea'n was in no danger. I would not do that, Elijah._

‘And _was_ it like an ordinary jump between places?’ Meretin could not hear Sammath’s reassurance, of course. Sea'n recognized that his question as more a diversion than a true request for facts.

‘There’s nothing _ordinary_ about _between_ , Meretin!’ Sea'n raised his hands in mock horror at the thought, hoping to make Elijah smile. As smiles went, it was pretty weak, barely a lift to the corners of his mouth, but at least the storm had abated…for now. ‘I think perhaps it lasted just a bit longer, though that might be my imagining. There wasn’t much difference, otherwise. I also think…’ he needed a deep breath to voice the admission, ‘in fact, I truly believe it should be possible—’

‘—to go even further back in time?’ Elijah forestalled Sea'n’s disclosure and the implications he had drawn. ‘Maybe as far as a time when the healers would know what is wrong with the queens and their riders, _and_ how to cure it?’ For a moment Elijah’s face lit up from the mere possibility—but his delight disappeared as fast as it came. 

‘Shells!’ he said then, horrified at the sudden realization. ‘That would be even _more_ sharding dangerous! The farther back you fly, the more chance there has to be of getting lost _between_ —and you’d have to fly a _long_ way back to have a hope of finding them!’ 

‘You’re right, of course,’ said Sea'n. ‘It will be a _very_ long way back. But for the sake of the queens and of Pern itself, it has to be done. I have spent the past three days thinking this through, Elijah, and _we_ have to be the ones to do it. Sammath and I have to make that flight back into time.’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	17. Possibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_… hope—you give me hope, Sea'n, that something may be done at last …_

‘Why? Why you, Sea'n? Anyone could go—why must it be you?’ Elijah demanded, just as Meretin had foreseen he would.

Meretin himself was still too busy wrestling with the notion that a dragon _could_ fly back in time, to consider yet who may actually _do_ it. But Sea'n had clearly given much thought to the matter. He took Elijah’s hands now and spoke to him, his voice lower, almost coaxing. Meretin drew away a little, to give them some privacy, but still he could not help overhearing Sea'n’s quiet words to Elijah. 

‘I think you know it has to be me, just as I do. It could not have been chance alone that brought Sammath and me to Telgar, to mate with the only queen who would remain free of the Scourge. Sammath more or less told me so at the time, though he couldn’t—still can’t—say why. He insisted that he and I _had_ to come here, that he must fly Frideth and _I_ must mate with _you_. So you see,’ he said, with a smile and a soft kiss to Elijah’s brow, ‘it does have to be me—because Sammath says so!’ 

Elijah managed a watery smile but Meretin could see he was far from convinced. 

I truly believe you and Frideth have been destined always to bring hope to the Weyrs, just as Sammath and I had to be the ones to rediscover—right now, when that knowledge may be critical to our survival—that dragons can safely fly through time.’

Sea'n brought his voice to its normal pitch and looked across at Meretin, including him once more. 

‘I believe, too, that somewhen in Pern’s past, a solution _shall_ be found to what ails our queens. Sammath and I must make that journey, to find and bring forward whatever it is they need.’ 

Sea'n sounded so completely certain that Meretin would have believed him whether he wanted to or not, and he did— _how_ he did! He already knew that Sea'n would go, no matter what his mate may say, either here and now, or later and in private. Elijah’s resistance—and the anguish so clear in his face—were understandable, but Sea'n’s conviction was too firm for him to withstand for long. It was a matter that could be resolved only between the two of them—as was how exactly how they would determine Sea'n’s destination. 

Meretin was no dragonrider and their secrets were not his to know. He turned instead, and with rising hope, to the more practical aspects where his own knowledge and experience may be of some value.

‘You think the Healer Hall of an earlier time would know? Well, yes, perhaps so indeed, if you go far enough back. But how would you explain the problem to them, Sea'n? This may never have happened to their queens. As far as we can discover, it has not happened to any queen before now. Even such proficient healers may never have met our so-called Scourge, so how can they possibly identify and heal it? In most cases, we assess an ailment by examining the patient and thus determining his or her physical condition. With this, there is nothing _to_ see, or even to hear.’ He frowned..

It was one of the most puzzling aspects of the malady. Queen and rider remained quite well in themselves. Even MasterHealer Lotine could only offer as certainty that an unknown _something_ inhibited the laying of full, healthy clutches, which in turn caused the rider to remain almost permanently proddy—or perhaps the other way around. But as to what, how or why, he was as baffled as anyone. 

‘I suppose one of the affected queens couldn’t—no, of course not!’ Elijah began, then hastily abandoned the suggestion before Meretin had time to consider and reject it himself. They really could not risk allowing a single queen and her rider to make a journey so fraught with danger—one which may not even be possible at all.

‘No,’ he said, ‘that’s not the way. Our queens are needed here, where every single hatchling is of inestimable value! But, now I think of it, I remember Master Lotine once told me that Corif, his predecessor, mentioned a great disappointment in his own apprentice days. His Master—now, what was his name…I forget, but he was highly excited by the possibility of using blood in the identification of disease.’

‘Blood? How would you do that?’

‘Apparently, the then GlassMaster contacted him with news of partial plans he’d found buried in their archive. They gave directions for an apparatus of some kind—designed for and used by the Healer Hall at one time—that had been lost to a fire. Corif said it had somehow made the close examination of blood a relatively simple matter, thus enabling accurate diagnosis in cases where physical examination proved insufficient.’

‘And, since you don’t have anything as useful as that in the Healer Hall right now, I’m guessing the GlassMaster didn’t get very far with his reconstruction,’ Elijah said resignedly.

‘Correct—the next they heard was that he had died of old age without entrusting the entirety of the project with his journeyman. The plans he left were too complex and still too far from complete for the latter to understand, let alone work from. The MasterHealer—it was Neisen, I remember now—Master Neisen was greatly frustrated, but there was nothing to be done. I believe he retired to his birth hold, not long after.’

Meretin sighed out his own frustration. ‘Yet another example, right there, of how tenuous our hold on knowledge can be. A fire, incorrect storage of valuable documents—even the unwillingness of an old Master to pass on all his secrets to a younger man—all of which speak against the hoarding of knowledge in whatever craft.’ 

‘But, if I were to take with me blood—or at least, ichor—from the queens, the healers of long enough ago may still possess such knowledge? They might even have one of these things and know how to use it to find out what the problem may be?’ asked Sea'n.

Meretin nodded, suddenly excited and encouraged by the prospect of something that may actually be _done_ to resolve the situation. He had long since tired of the constant and completely futile bemoaning of what the Healer Hall had lost, which was all he or any healer these days could offer to the case.

‘I believe so. It may be wise to take samples from each one of our queens and also from their riders. And most particularly from Elijah, and from Frideth, if he will permit?’ 

‘Yes, but—’

‘If there are indeed indications to be found in blood, there must surely be differences between the blood and ichor of a fully functional breeding queen and her rider, and the same from a pair that can no longer do so— _and_ ,’ Meretin rushed on, quite carried away by the idea now, ‘we do know that Miktele and Ciala are unaffected—as yet, at least—presumably because Clarith and Toranith are not yet mature enough to rise for mating—which must surely affect the composition of _their_ blood and ichor—and we must not forget Narenis, who has entirely escaped this thing, presumably because both she and Sinitroth have passed beyond the age of breeding—her blood and her queen’s ichor may be valuable in extending the range of physical conditions, since comparing samples from all four should offer further relevant signs of whatever disorder afflicts the majority—which may possibly appear quite obvious to those who possess both the appropriate knowledge and the equipment to enable them to scrutinize the blood in ways we can no longer achieve—identifying the similarities of course, but more importantly the _differences_ which must surely be the key to—’

He stopped abruptly, a trifle breathless, realizing both Sea'n and Elijah were watching him, eyes wide and lips a-twitch. He couldn’t help but laugh with them.

‘I beg your pardon!’ he gasped, wiping his eyes at last. ‘There are just so many possibilities! And hope—you give me hope, Sea'n, that something may be done at last, even if my part in it can be little more than a mere collector of samples!’ 

‘What about the blood of green-rider women too—perhaps also those who are _not_ riders, for comparison?’ Elijah suggested. He might be unwilling to risk Sea'n and Sammath in the endeavor, but his interest was engaged now.

‘Indeed, I was just thinking that, myself!’

‘ _I_ think,’ said Sea'n, ‘that _all_ the Weyrs should have a part in this. If we can manage it somehow, I should take with me blood or ichor from every one of Pern’s queens and their riders.’

‘You may have a problem there,’ Elijah said, frowning. ‘I don’t care much for the idea of taking ichor from Frideth, and _I_ understand the need. Also, I am not affected by the Scourge. I’m not sure I could convince Lenara or Riana—let alone Jendria!—to let you make holes in their queens. And whatever _they_ may say or do, the others will be worse by far!’

‘They will be quite tiny holes,’ Meretin pointed out apologetically, ‘mere pin-pricks, in fact!’ He gave Elijah a smile—half-teasing, half-serious—and Elijah grinned back for his obvious attempt to minimize an already miniscule risk.

‘But we have the key to making them more amenable, now,’ said Sea'n. ‘I know you don’t approve of bronze-riders manipulating the weyrwomen, Elijah, but I truly believe that every one of them, in her right mind and temper, would _want_ to have a part in finding a cure, if it is at all possible.’ 

‘You’re right, of course,’ Elijah said, with a sigh, ‘but directing it like that just makes what should be a private matter between the two, seem so impersonal, so—’ he gave a wry smile, ‘—so _bloodless_!’ 

‘No-one else need ever know, only the Weyrleaders and the other riders concerned,’ Sea'n pointed out. ‘And even they may simply be told []that the healers need the samples to assist in the search for a cure. In fact, I think it best for further details of the venture to be kept as secret as possible until I have left—and maybe not even then. Why raise their hopes, when—’ he cut off the rest of what he would have said. 

Meretin looked into Elijah’s face, and knew exactly why. 

‘But Masterhealer Lotine at least should be informed!’ he put in quickly. He really was quite shocked that Sea'n would even _suggest_ that the Master of his Hall should be excluded from what was a matter for healers after all, even if they could not, in this case, actually heal the queens themselves.

‘Oh, no—he must be told, of course!’ Elijah said, losing a little of the bleakness Meretin had seen in him. ‘You didn’t mean that, did you Sea'n? In fact, his support will probably prove vital.’ 

Sea'n nodded his agreement at once. ‘We shall _need_ to tell him,’ he said.

‘‘Ah, of course,’ said Meretin. ‘A request from the MasterHealer is unlikely to be denied. On the other hand, if a single queen-rider in a single Weyr were to suspect either of you of involvement in that request, the rest would likely refuse to cooperate at all.’

‘Mostly me,’ Elijah admitted ruefully, ‘but maybe Sea'n, too.’

‘I foresee other difficulties also,’ Meretin said, ‘in that Sea'n cannot simply arrive in the Pern of who knows when, and fly down to the Healer Hall to demand help for the queens of our far later time. For one thing, who is to believe him? They would probably take him for a rider from one of their Weyrs, sun-struck or maybe drunk out of his mind. Every Weyrleader would then be summoned to identify and claim him, and soon enough the whole of Pern would hear garbled tales of this strange rider from the future…’ He raised a brow at Elijah, who nodded his understanding at once.

‘…when there is nothing in any record from any Hall or Weyr in _our_ time, to say that such a thing ever occurred,’ Elijah completed the thought for him, with all the certainty of one who had read too many of them himself.

‘It _did_ ,’ Sea'n insisted, equally certain, ‘I know it did—just maybe not as openly as that. The visit was kept secret somehow—’ 

‘You really believe such an unheard of event could be kept secret at Fort? That every single holder, harper and healer there—to say nothing of chattering apprentices and gossiping drudges—would hold their silence forever? There isn’t even a drunken ale-house _ditty_ to say it happened!’ Elijah said hotly.

‘Clearly then, Sea'n’s presence must be—have been—known to only a few people of that time. Quite how that may be managed, simply can’t be decided here and now. That will be Sea'n’s part alone, when he arrives there. Then.’ 

‘Meretin, you’re completely ignoring the fact that—’ Elijah broke off abruptly as Sea'n took him by hand, drawing him forward to speak quietly in his ear. Elijah only bit his lip and nodded in reply.

It seemed to Meretin that a change of emphasis was required here, if not of subject. 

‘What may present even more of a problem,’ he began, ‘is that we do not know how long all of that may take, from Sea'n’s arrival to the samples actually being examined with the equipment we hope they still possess, back whenever Sea'n may be when he does actually arrive. We know from observation, of course, that blood begins to change its composition when exposed to air. I fear that once clotting has begun, it may be of no use whatever for the purpose. Enclosed within a vial, it may stay good far longer, but we simply have no way of knowing how long—’

‘Can we not freeze it?’ Elijah interrupted. ‘We know that food, at least, keeps fresh for many months—sometimes for turns—if quickly frozen.’ 

The Weyr maintained a cavern, high up amid the turn-round wastes of snow and ice, where fish and meat and various fruits were preserved when tithed and plentiful, to keep throughout the long cold season. Whatever was placed there froze quickly and remained edible, once thawed and cooked, right through into the next turn, if need be and the weather prevented the provision of fresh supplies. 

‘A good thought!’ approved Meretin. ‘Yes, that seems a definite possibility. I shall procure some and test it on the instant! Really, this is most convenient. Who is the duty weyrling today?’

‘A'tiri—he’s very reliable. I’ll send him to you.’

Meretin saw Sea'n’s brow furrow at that, but he left it to Elijah to provide explanation of weyrling ice-collection duties before Fall. He excused himself hastily and hurried from the weyr, fired with the notion of actually doing something of _use_ at last.

Once closeted in his small dispensary he rummaged thoughtfully through the less frequently accessed of the drawers there.

Bloodletting was a completely archaic treatment that had been tried and lost favor yet again, many turns ago. It was true that the patient calmed, but equally true that such calm sometimes proved merely the precursor of an unintended death. Still, he kept a sufficient supply of needlethorns on hand—for the drainage of abscesses, carbuncles and the like. Reeds, too, he thought, though those were more easily obtained at this time of the turn. 

_Now, where..?_ Ah, here—and both of them together, how convenient! Not many of either, though, and nowhere near enough for the coming need, but his Hall would doubtless provide. And where had he—oh yes, in that box there. Glass tubes were not ordinarily much in demand and his stock of them was pitifully low. A visit to Glassmaster Edrin was clearly most necessary—though perhaps that was yet another request more attentively heeded if made by Masterhealer Lotine. 

_Hmm_. He took one and balanced it carefully upright in an empty pot. Yes, a number of those wooden racks to hold the tubes upright would really be essential. He might have an odd one somewhere, but new would be better. More reliable. Still not very hygienic, though, if the blood were still to be of use after all its journeying. He shook his head. The Healer Hall may have lost much complex knowledge over the turns, but good practice was less easily set aside. 

How else were the samples to be contained, then? A box of sand? No, wait—a box of ice, of course! If they were to be frozen anyway, it would actually make sense to chill them straight away. Chipped ice would work as well as any rack, and obtaining it would provide more weyrlings with even more excuse to break things for a change. Safer in that case however, if at least one flighted rider were to oversee the collection, Sea'n for choice. The tallow would seal more efficiently too, than around the stopper of a still-warm tube.

He wrapped a cord around his arm now, pulling it tight with his teeth. Really, Elijah’s assistance would have been most useful, but this was merely a trial and could be repeated. Swiping redthorn solution over the raised vein, Meretin took up the needlethorn, reed fitted neatly to one end, and punctured his skin. He deftly caught the first drops in the tube. _And perhaps a second one, for luck?_

No sooner were they filled and sealed than A'tiri arrived as arranged. 

‘Frideth told Kerinth you need me to do something important,’ he panted. Wherever he had been when his bronze delivered the queen’s message, he had rushed to obey. Still a weyrling, however senior, A'tiri’s chest puffed out with pride at being entrusted with this additional task today. 

‘I need you to take these to the storage cavern and freeze them as quickly as possible—set them in chipped ice up to the stoppers, and be sure to keep them a couple of inches apart.’ Meretin paused before consigning the precious vials of blood into the boy’s care. This matter should not be bruited about the Weyr. ‘Mind you tell no-one, or Frideth will know!’

He wasn’t actually sure if Frideth _would_ know, but as a threat it worked wonders.

With a mumbled, ‘Yes, Master Meretin, of course not, Master Meretin!’ A'tiri placed the vials in his belt pouch and left so fast the healer could only hope they might arrive intact. Well, he could get more samples if need be—and for his sins, if committed, it would be A'tiri who provided the next pair.

A sevenday or so would be a fair enough test, he decided. He would then send A'tiri to retrieve them, and closely examine the thawed results with Elijah. Really, his most pressing need now was conveyance to his Hall. He must explain Sea'n’s plan to Lotine, engage his assistance, and accept such guidance and advice as he may have to offer. Not without reason was Lotine the MasterHealer of Pern.

No, perhaps not _quite_ yet. He could go ahead with his planning—and indeed it would be only sensible to take time to consider all aspects of the undertaking. _Venture in haste, regret at leisure_. It was an old adage but one with enough truth to it to forever keep it from falling out of use.

For now, there was little haste to put any plan further into practice until Sea'n and Elijah had discovered exactly _how_ that flight into the past may safely be made.

Until, he thought with a sigh, Sea'n finally convinced Elijah that he must and would be the one to go.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	18. Practicality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_… I swear I shall never leave you again—but for this, I must go …_

‘Did you do that on purpose?’ Elijah asked as the curtain fell shut behind Meretin. His tone was almost as glacial as Telgar’s storage cavern itself.

‘Do what?’ But Sea'n knew well enough what Elijah meant. He avoided meeting the blue eyes that regarded him so accusingly.

‘Or did it simply not occur to you that as your _mate_ , I might like to learn about this—this wherry-brained idea _before_ anyone else?’

‘I thought you liked Meretin,’ Sea'n said, and immediately winced—that screamed evasion, even to him.

 _‘Sea'n!_ ’ Just the one word, but his sense of betrayal was clear in the set of his shoulders as Elijah turned away.

Sea'n sighed. He’d handled this wrong already and he knew it. Meretin had left their weyr filled with hope once more, but Elijah knew the truth of it. 

With the complete confidence all non-riders had in dragons and the seemingly effortless way they flew so far and so fast, the healer had taken the possibility Sea'n offered, for absolute fact. To him it was no more than a fortunately rediscovered ability—simply an opportunity to be seized with both…wings. 

Having no real grasp of the dangers involved in such a journey, his mind had dismissed that small matter, instead looking eagerly forward to setting in motion what steps he could take to enable the success of Sea'n’s mission.

Elijah, though… Elijah knew exactly how dangerous a flight so far through time might prove to be. The doubts he had raised already were clearly multiplying by the moment, valid enough for all that they remained unspoken. 

‘Come sit with me? Please?’ Sea'n held out his hand, and held his breath through the endless wait before Elijah sighed and took it. Sea'n pulled him down and carefully settled him into his side, one arm over Elijah’s shoulders, Elijah’s head on his chest. Sea'n laid a kiss in his hair before he spoke again. 

‘I didn’t tell you any of it before because—because I needed the time to think it through for myself, first. And because it scares _me_ , too. I’ve only just now got to the point where I can talk about it, even to you. Yes, I should have told you before anyone else—’ 

‘Oh, so _now_ you think it?’ Elijah muttered into his shirt.

‘Yes, now I _realize_ it and I am truly sorry. It was just that Meretin was here and though he rarely speaks of it these days, I know how deep the feeling of failure runs in him. He is quite desperate to find a way to rid the queens of this—this _thing_. It hurts him to know that for all their Mastery, for all the learning of the Healer Hall, he and all his peers are as helpless as a babe in arms when it comes to the Scourge. I wanted to give him that hope, I suppose.’

‘Even though it’s not much of a hope? When you know the chances of success are small to non-existent? When you know you might never—’ Elijah buried the rest of his fears in Sea'n’s chest.

Words were easily stifled, but Sea'n knew the thought itself would loom ever larger, the more Elijah tried not to think about it. Doubts and fears had the habit of multiplying in your mind unbidden—overwhelming you if you let them. The danger must be faced and then set aside, as he had somehow managed these past few days. Unless Elijah could do so too, this flight could not take place—as it must and would. 

He was no coward—he had heart and courage enough for this, though his role must be entirely different. Given time—as Sea'n himself had needed time—he would accept that there _was_ no other way.

‘When there’s a chance Sammath and I may never return?’ said Sea'n, finishing the thought for him. ‘Yes, even then.’ 

‘Why go at all, if you know that?’ Elijah challenged, lifting his head to stare up at Sea'n. His hand curving gently at Elijah’s cheek, Sea'n kissed first his eyelids and then his mouth.

‘Because it must be done—and because I don’t really believe it,’ he said. ‘Yes, it scares me, the possibility of getting lost forever in the cold nothing of _between_. Or maybe stuck fast in a time where I don’t belong and, worse still, where you do not exist. The fact that there is no record anywhere of a bronze dragon suddenly appearing from the future could mean we never get there at all—I admit it.’

‘So, why—?’ Sea'n silenced the question with a finger to Elijah’s lips.

‘But the more I’ve thought about it—and believe me, I _have_ thought about it, Elijah—the more certain I am, deep inside, that Sammath and I are _meant_ to go. And I think we have too much waiting for us here, not to come home again.’

‘Sean, I don’t—’ 

This time it was Sammath that silenced him, speaking firmly to both. _We are needed, Elijah. We must go._

It was Frideth, however who put an end to Elijah’s resistance if not his doubts. 

_They must, Elijah, or Pern may be lost. Sammath knows. He would not leave us if it were not necessary._

With a start, Sea'n also heard her words. It happened rarely and he knew it for the honor it was. He bowed toward her on the ledge. ‘Thank you, Frideth,’ he said aloud, not presuming to invade her mind.

Turning back to Elijah, he said ‘If—if for some reason can’t—if the worst does happen—I shall still have the memory of you with me until the end, whenever that may be. I don’t have the words to tell you how much I love you, Elijah—what our weyrmating means to me. I hope you know it.’ 

This time, it was Elijah who pulled Sea'n into their kiss, love and fear and a sharp desperation in every touch of lips, each sweep of tongue, in every breath they shared.

It was Elijah who ended it, too—a slow damping of the fire that flared between them. When Sea'n looked hazily down at him, he smiled. ‘Fall this afternoon,’ he reminded his mate. ‘This will be better afterward.’ 

Sea'n sighed heavily, still holding Elijah tight against him. ‘If Fall is light again, and your skills are not much in demand, maybe you could consider how Sammath and I are going to find our way there— _and_ back again.’

Elijah was fated once more to wait out Threadfall with Meretin and the weyrfolk, of course, tending injured riders and dragons, for Frideth could never again be risked to fly in the queens’ wing. Gilanth and Toranith must serve as her replacements there—at least until Gilanth rose to mate, which could not be so far off, now. 

Any or all of Frideth’s daughters may indeed prove as fertile as she, but the Weyrs could not depend upon it. And by the time those offspring flew to fight Thread, many more of Pern’s older riders might— _would_ —have failed already. Frideth alone was their one certain hope.

Dragonkind teetered still on the very knife-edge of survival, and Sea'n’s journey remained as vital as it was inevitable.

All thought of further discussion—or of activities far more pleasurable—was set aside, however, when a sudden squall flung the day’s Fall far out of its expected pattern.

The steady sweep of dragons across the sky was fractured again and again as intermittent tangles sideswiped those already flaming Thread before them. The air was filled with cries of pain—even Sea'n’s own wing, more disciplined than any, took casualties Most skipped back into line once the strands cracked off in the bitter cold of _between_ but all too many gaps remained. No lament as yet, thank the skies, but the healers must be busy down below.

Sea'n had just demanded, _Who, now?_ when hot agony seared across his mind. He and Sammath were swallowed by the sudden dark. ‘Where? How bad?’ Sea'n was yelling aloud as they emerged once more into a pale blue sky widely spattered with gouts of orange-red flame. 

_Head, not bad,_ Sammath reported briefly, directing his wing clearly more important for now. _Derubeth, above you! That one’s yours, Segoneth! Romiroth—ROMIROTH!_

A high-pitched human scream from somewhere close at hand. From the corner of his eye, Sea'n caught the merest glimpse of a sudden tangle that burst, seemingly from nowhere, to take V'diren on the thigh. Romiroth blinked out and did not return.

_Sammath—are they…?_

_Romiroth is in the Bowl already. The healers have his rider,_ said Sammath. _Litanith, Jadeth—cover the gap below! Sea'n, more firestone!_

Sammath stretched his neck to take it and stoke his flame. The fight was yet ongoing.

The casualty count—unusually widespread, if thankfully without fatalities—and self-recrimination came later, when Sea'n returned to his weyr to find only the comforts of hot klah and a pot of numbweed. He made quick use of both.

The worst hurts were to Romiroth and to V'diren. The heavy tangle that caught his thigh had flowed on down to score across Romiroth’s chest. Quick reaction had frozen most of it _between_ on both of them, but the scoring was still widespread on each. Severe enough that the bronze would not see his own weyr for a sevenday, at least. Deep enough that V'diren would not walk again for many more than that. 

_The pain is gone and I shall quickly be whole again_ , Sammath was telling Sea'n yet again as Elijah came through into the weyr. _You could have done nothing—not for me, not for Romiroth and his rider, nor any of the others._

Sea'n just shook his head, staring down into his klah. That strand of Thread had landed far too close to Sammath’s right eye for him _not_ to blame himself, however vainly. Just a shade closer could have left the bronze permanently blind on that side. It was a rider’s worst nightmare—for what was left to a dragon that could no longer fight Thread without himself posing a danger to his wing-fellows? To a bronze that had not a hope of catching even a green in a mating flight, let alone a queen? 

Sammath’s first ever and most severe Threadscore to date had been too close to that same eye. The bronze had whipped them away into _between_ , but the tendrils of a passing tangle had left him with a crisscrossing of pale scars along his face on that side, but his vision thankfully unimpaired.

A part of what shuddered through Sea'n now was the knowledge that Sammath could have been left so today. That he would then have had to stand by as some other bronze flew Frideth, as another rider took his weyrmate.

He was only distantly aware of Elijah reaching for a riding strap to hang before the curtain.

‘Listen to your dragon, Sea'n! You could have done nothing and nor could V'diren, other than snatch them _between_ which he did admirably quickly despite the pain. A windblown tangle is no-one’s _fault_ ,’ he told Sea'n, taking the klah to set it aside and pull his mate into a hug. 

‘Romiroth’s injury is less severe because Thread was already tumbling away from V'diren and he was scored only in passing. V'diren, though—V'diren is lucky still to have that leg. Thread had burrowed already. Were it not for Romiroth’s prompt action in bringing him straight from _between_ to the healers in the Bowl, and the ice quickly packed around the wound…’ 

V'diren was still little more than a boy. Sea'n hated to think he might have spent the rest of his life dependent on a carved and rigid substitute for a leg. As he may still, if infection set in. But then—

‘Ice?’ he asked aloud.

‘It seemed logical,’ said Elijah. ‘The cold of _between_ is so effective in halting minor Threadscore, I thought it worth a try. For a while now, I’ve been sending one of the older weyrlings north to collect some before Fall. We don’t always need it, but today it may have saved more than just V'diren’s leg. We know there is a risk of infection using it, but when the alternative is immediate amputation…’

Sea'n took Elijah’s face between his hands and kissed him. ‘ _You_ are a wonder,’ he said. ‘Meretin must rue the day you Impressed, let alone the Harper Hall!’

Elijah blushed and shook his head. ‘I only wish I’d thought of it before. Still, V'diren is sleeping now, bound up in numbweed and dosed with fellis. Meretin has settled him on a cot, with Romiroth close by, in one of the healing weyrs nearest the Hatching Ground, where they’ll catch a little warmth from the Sands. K'ris is with him now Fall is over, of course.’

‘Of course!’ 

Sea'n had been proved right about V'diren taking care of his friend. Helisth had not yet risen to mate, her maturity held back by K'ris’s still young age, and the two boys shared only their friendship as yet. Had Sea'n been more the wagering sort, however, he’d have put marks on that changing, just as soon as she did.

But here and now…

 _When Fall goes amiss, take comfort in a willing body that responds to yours_. That was R'bant’s advice from long ago—advice Sea'n was more than eager to take right now.

With Elijah it was comfort and far more. It was the many ways of pleasure they found together. It was Elijah’s mouth and Sea'n’s hands, the welcome slide of skin on skin, soft against hard and harder still. The rounded slope of muscle, sweat-misted, parting eagerly beneath his touch, smoothly yielding to the steady push of oiled fingers. A long, slow rise and sudden fall that caught the breath in Elijah’s throat and a gasped name in his own. Tension that gathered, speeding ever faster, ever tighter—cresting in flame, easing only to the constant warmth of love.

With Elijah, Sea'n found comfort and far, far more.

~~~

‘Well, we’ve proved it wasn’t just a lucky accident, and it isn’t only Sammath who can travel back in time!’ Elijah said cheerfully, dropping his riding gear on the bench before turning to unharness Frideth.

Sea'n had not intended either queen or rider ever to take such a risk, and only agreed for Sammath to follow Elijah’s memory because he knew his mate would go ahead and try it alone if he didn’t. If the attempt failed, at least they would have failed together.

‘We also proved that you were used to be quite the charmer, given the freedom of a gather!’ he retorted, unbuckling the riding straps from Sammath.

‘I was _not_!’ Elijah protested, half-laughing, half-indignant.

‘It looked very much to me as if you were kissing that yellow-haired chit!’ 

‘You couldn’t possibly have seen any such thing from way up on Sammath! And anyway, _she_ was kissing _me_. I had never kissed a girl before that day—which was why I remember that particular gather in the first place—and I just sort of…let her. Sea'n, we were children, playing grown-up games. You can’t be jealous?’

‘No, not really—just as long as you promise never to be alone with her when we go visiting your folks!’ He tugged Elijah into his arms and set about the kind of wholly grown-up kiss he’d make sure Syntri never got the chance to share with his mate—no matter how much she clearly still wanted to.

When at last they broke apart, Sea'n recalled feeling equally breathless—for no such enjoyable reason—after the longest of the trips he had taken back into time. Maybe it really did take that bit longer? He must remember to take a steady count and see, but he wouldn’t give Elijah anything more to worry about just yet.

Elijah blinked and looked down, as if in surprise, at the straps he was still holding, then at Sea'n, who took them gently from him and set each dragon’s gear safely on its respective wall pegs. What followed was as inevitable—and as enjoyable—as ever. 

After several such attempts at flying to past times they themselves remembered, it was a short step to borrowing the memories of one far older than they. Y'tir was the oldest rider at Telgar, and well beyond flying Thread now. He made himself useful around the Weyr helping the weyrlings make their first harnesses for when their dragonets would fly—and found himself busier now than for turns. Brown Gerith just dozed in the sun and stirred himself only to fly heavily over the killing grounds, where prey was plentiful and could not escape even his ungainly flight. 

He was quite willing to recall for them the days of his youth as Yanatir at Kwethluk Hold, several decades before Sea'n was born. Sammath easily plucked time and place from the images in Gerith’s mind, passing them directly to Frideth so no discrepancy could creep in.

When the two dragons emerged from _between_ , high above Kwethluk, their riders were both shivering a little. It was only because Y'tir recalled a dragon pair, way up in the sky—too high even to know their colors against such brightness—that Sea'n agreed to let Frideth take the risk alongside Sammath.

‘I’m sure that took longer than any time we’ve flown back to before,’ Sea'n shouted to Elijah. ‘I wish I’d kept count!’ But his words were blown away and Elijah only shrugged and shook his head.

 _Elijah says_ between _lasted longer that time than it usually does when Frideth takes him somewhere. He says he will count, on the way back, and compare it with a place jump_ , said Sammath.

Sea'n grinned. _Tell him that’s a good idea!_

It was tempting to land and get warm—even the snowy landscape below, with the huge blazing bonfire that was a part of Y'tir’s earliest memory, would be warmer than the frigid air around them—with worse to come again, _between_. But no dragon had landed at the hold that day, and especially not a queen and her bronze mate. They had not then and so they could not now. 

_We return now—tell Frideth!_ Sea'n said, and began his count as black _between_ closed in around them.

The air above their meadow felt wonderfully warm by contrast. ‘Twelve!’ sang out Elijah, just as Sea'n shouted, ‘Ten!’ It made perfect sense to him that his energetic weyrmate would count faster than he did, but details apart they had proved it did indeed take longer to fly to a time further in the past, than the eight count of place to place jumps.

After landing their riders, the two dragons were swiftly in the air again, each selecting and quickly disposing of one of the fat woolies they enjoyed so much more than herdbeasts brought to the killing grounds at Telgar.

‘We just need some older people,’ said Elijah, sprawling out on the grass, jacket open but not removed—it wasn’t _that_ much warmer here today.

‘There _aren’t_ many people older than Y'tir!’ said Sea'n, offering him the waterskin he’d left hanging close by. ‘At least, not dragonriders so Frideth and Sammath can access their memories accurately.’ 

He turned to uncover the package of bread and cheese that had waited for them, well-concealed beneath a heap of small stones. Anything left in sight and unguarded was all too likely to be whisked away by wherries. They had found this out the hard way, and proved at the same time that wherries seemed to know when humans were too busy with each other to notice what was happening to their lunch.

‘What about the old drudge you met at Keroon?’ Elijah asked through a bite of sharp cheese and crusty bread.

Sea'n considered a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. Well, Frist—that was his name—he may be a few turns older than Y'tir, but we don’t just need a few turns further back, Elijah, we need hundreds of them. I doubt even Frist’s old mother could have helped!’ He turned back to his own meal.

‘Maybe Sammath would understand where to go if you read him an account of a definite place and time in the records? Or maybe if I put several records together—ours, the Harper Hall’s, and perhaps those from one or more of the other Weyrs, all of the same event—to make it as clear as possible. Do you think he could?’

_Could you do that, Sammath? You can take pictures from another dragon’s mind. If Elijah made a picture with his words, could you go there?_

There was a pause. _Perhaps. A trial would be wise._

 _But even a trial would be the real thing—and if it didn’t work…_ Sea'n shivered, despite the jacket. ‘He may not be sure, but I am. I won't do it, Elijah,’ he said decisively. 

The surprise he expected was there on Elijah’s face, along with relief and his instant agreement. 

‘No, I don’t mean the whole thing, only that it’s too much of a risk to do it that way. There’s just too big a difference between the impression you can get from words, and something you can actually see,’ he explained, regretfully watching that relief fade and die. 

‘Teaching ballads apart,’ he pointed out, ‘every harper tells the exact same tale in his own way—you know they do. The facts may be the same, but the details depend on the harper himself and they can differ widely. And between the various records, you, me and Sammath, it would only need one little fact to be understood the wrong way, at one crucial point for the whole thing to be both useless and far too dangerous even to try. I need to be absolutely certain I know where we’re going before I’ll fly my dragon _any_ where!’

He knew how much Elijah was still secretly hoping they couldn’t go at all, but Sea'n remained convinced there was a way, somehow—there _had_ to be.

He went on fretting at the problem, back home in their weyr. ‘We’ve lost so much,’ he said with a loud sigh, flopping down on the padded bench, ‘but surely there should be pictures somewhere? Pictures from long enough ago that Sammath could _see_ —something that would really _show_ —’

‘Oh!’ cried Elijah. ‘The Tally Box!’ and he rushed from the weyr leaving Sea'n to frown his puzzlement. 

It was some time before he reappeared, walking far more slowly and carrying the box in his hands as reverently as if it were made of glass. The custom of centuries made this a perquisite of the Weyrwoman of Telgar alone, to tend and to keep. Elijah must have employed some truly persuasive arguments for Lenara to let it out of her sight, let alone out of her weyr.

Telgar’s Tallies, Sea'n had learned before this, were one of the Weyr’s most cherished traditions. A means of deciding disputes fairly in the absence—so Elijah had said, though Sea'n was still not sure that was not a joke—of straws to draw, so high in the mountains. The Tallies themselves were beautifully carved tokens representing seventeen of the very first dragon and rider pairs. Used only rarely, they were preserved in a bag of some red material worn with age, inside an ancient box carved from wood.. 

The sides each bore a pair of profiles, facing inward—still recognizable as dragons on the long sides, people on the short, any features long since blurred to mere suggestion. The various shapes raised on the lid seemed to show a settlement of the time. A small hold only, with no detail remaining by which to identify its location—though more than one rider, glimpsing it in passing, had claimed it for the place of his or her birth.

‘Do you really think it could be as old as all that—as old as we need?’ Sea'n asked as Elijah set it on the bench between them

‘Well, it _is_ one of our very oldest traditions,’ Elijah said, ‘and I know just how often and how thoroughly Lenara polishes it. If every Weyrwoman through the centuries—back to the founding of the Weyr itself—has looked after it so well, it’s a wonder there are any recognizable shapes left at all!’ 

Sea'n looked up with a worried frown. ‘Elijah, I can’t risk Sammath flying to such vague—’

‘No, of course not,’ Elijah interrupted. ‘I wouldn’t, either, so it’s lucky the outside isn’t what we need!’ 

Lifting the lid revealed a picture of an entirely different kind—one few people other than the presiding Weyrwoman would ever have seen. It remained as sharp and as clear as the day the craftsman—Ram Telgar himself, so legend would have it—had first inlaid his skybroom canvas with countless tiny, perfectly shaped and positioned slivers of wood and shell and stark white bone. 

He had created there a scene of moonlight over water, in the lustrous sheen and many iridescent shades of nacre, and in woods even Elijah could not name—some pale and creamy, others dark as night. A chain of islands lay scattered over a wide, calm sea, the nearest rising cone-shaped from a fringe of pearled and purling wavelets. And over all, a precise formation of stars shone bright and clear. 

Sea'n looked at it, and the conviction he had waited for settled in his mind at last. ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘This star pattern is what Sammath and I must follow into the past.’ 

‘You are sure?’

‘I’m positive, now,’ said Sea'n, just as Sammath said, _That is the place we must fly to, Sea'n. I know it._

Sea'n met Elijah’s eyes and knew he too heard Sammath’s words.

‘It need not take too long at all!’ Elijah said, almost gaily. ‘We shall both go tomorrow, before first light.’

‘No,’ Sea'n said firmly, seizing his hand and tugging Elijah to face him where they sat.

‘But—’

‘ _No_ , Elijah. Even if this were as quick and easy a task as that, it is not a task for you. I will risk Sammath and myself, but not Frideth, and not you. I believe it can be done but even so, we have no idea how long it might take. Searching the past for a healer who may know a cure for our queens is a very different thing from a quick swoop over chasm, beach or hold—there and back before anyone could miss us. On an errand such as this, I may be gone for some time—who knows?’ 

Elijah looked at him, his face very pale now, a crease bitten deep into his forehead. ‘But that—that would mean… What of Frideth’s next rising? Sammath is her mate—she needs him to sire the clutches Pern so badly needs!’ His voice rose, almost shrill and wholly desperate.

‘Pern does not need _us_ —Sammath and me—for that,’ said Sea'n, ‘it only needs you, Elijah. You and Frideth, and all the daughters she may have. Any bronze will serve to sire her offspring, but only Frideth can lay sufficient eggs to give us a hope of replacing our losses. Only through Frideth can Pern be saved. You and she must stay.’

‘But there is Gilanth, now.’ Elijah protested. ‘There are also Toranith and Olenth and—’

‘Not even Gilanth has yet risen to mate. We do not yet know that she—or any other of Frideth’s daughters—will be as fertile as their dam. She remains the hope of Pern.’

‘But Sea'n—’ 

Sea'n silenced his protest with gentle fingers, pulling back when Elijah tried to capture one between his lips, refusing the distraction.

‘No. The risk to Frideth is too great. There is no other way, no other certain breeding queen. If we…if Sammath and I do not return, you have to go on, Elijah. You alone can do that—can help Frideth to repopulate the Weyrs.’

Not lack of sight now might rob him and Sammath of their mates, he thought ruefully, but a separation in time. Maybe for a handful of days—of sevendays, perhaps—but maybe for turn after turn. Turn upon turn in which Frideth must rise to mate over and again—and Elijah must accept her bronze’s rider, every time. 

All Sea'n’s courage would be needed in this venture—and all Elijah’s for what would be demanded of him in the staying. They both knew it—to set the matter in plain words could alter it not one jot.

Sea'n laid his forehead against Elijah’s. ‘Sammath and I must go,’ he said. ‘If we succeed then you and I will be together always, for I swear I shall never leave you again, but for this, I _must_ go—and you must stay, for Frideth and for Pern.’

‘I know.’ Elijah looked up, eyes muted to a watery blue that would not give in and resolve into tears. ‘I know.’ He held Sea'n so tight against himself that Sea'n could feel his heart beat in time with his own.

Sea'n forced himself to break the hug. Hands on Elijah’s shoulders, he lightly shook him. ‘You have to allow this. You have to give us your blessing, Elijah.’

What Elijah gave was a slew of frantic kisses blurring frantic words. ‘You must come back to us, Sea'n. I doubt Frideth—or I—can ever accept being mated by another dragon or his rider. We need you and Sammath. Go safely, but please— _please_ , come back to us.’

Sea'n’s reassurance poured out in words and kisses no less jumbled than Elijah’s own, but their message was more than clear. ‘If we can, we will—we must!’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	19. Cajolery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…at least half that statement was truth…_

It was clear from the light-hearted exchanges at breakfast that Telgar’s weyrwomen had each enjoyed the previous evening, possibly even as much as Elijah had. But the moment Meretin broached the subject of collecting ichor from their queens, the atmosphere was suddenly as tense as ever it had been. Elijah understood exactly why.

Everything in him resisted the thought of deliberately injuring his queen. It didn’t matter that the notion of any dragon’s hide being damaged by the prick of even the very largest size of needlethorn was really quite ridiculous. It was far more likely that a number of thorns would be fruitlessly broken in the attempt, before one was found tough enough to pierce dragon-hide to the vein beneath. 

He knew this quite well, after Meretin strode up to him the day after Sea'n’s revelation and posed the stark question, ‘Will ichor also freeze and thaw successfully?’

Elijah had no more idea than the healer. They needed a trial sample right now, but Frideth would not be the one giving it. It might be cowardly, but he knew he would have to lead the way if he were to inveigle his fellow queen-riders into allowing their and their dragons’ samples to be taken, and he was not keen on going through the ordeal twice. It was Frideth who reminded him of K'rel’s offer.

 _‘I doubt there ever could be anything Feruth and I can do in return that will mean so much, but if there is, you have only to ask…’_ he had said, the day Elijah nudged him to see through his dragonet’s eyes. And if any rider had learned early to keep his own counsel at need, it was K'rel. 

Elijah hadn’t even gotten his request half out of before K'rel agreed. He could only suppose that a rider and dragon that had known Threadscore would consider such a pinprick too negligible for concern. When he told Sea'n about it, he laughed uproariously, said Sammath would have offered if asked, and agreed to help carry out the maneuver as unobtrusively as possible.

The sampling was done out on the field later that day, with a ‘festering Threadscore’ the excuse for Meretin to ‘take a look at’ Feruth. Elijah was prudently absent, but Meretin reported a need for heavier duty needlethorns before mass collection could begin. Sea'n ‘just happened’ to be on hand to whisk the filled tube directly to the ice cavern. When it and Meretin’s two samples were retrieved, all three proved to thaw satisfactorily.

Even then, when it came to sampling Frideth and the other queens, it didn’t help that he had seen how little Feruth reacted, had planned the whole thing with Meretin and understood the reason better than any. Even as Meretin explained the need and purpose of Masterhealer Lotine’s Weyr-wide request, a part of him still rebelled at the thought—ridiculous or not—of hurting Frideth. 

But, it must be done, and Frideth must be the first to suffer that most minor of injuries, if Elijah were to have the smallest hope of persuading his fellow riders to submit their queens to the process.

His own reluctance as clear in every one of them, the weyrwomen followed Elijah and Meretin out onto the sands of the Hatching Ground, where Frideth and Candessa were already waiting. The headwoman had a table set up in the coolest place, barely inside the Ground at all. On it was set a wide box filled with ice chips holding upright row upon row of empty glass tubes. Sea'n and a small group of weyrlings had had a lot more fun filling that box than Elijah would have getting those tubes filled, here.

Each one was as long as Elijah’s hand, and each had its stopper waiting loosely in the neck. Next to a pile of neatly written labels lay a bobbin of stout thread and a pair of scissors. Warming over a small pan of coals was a bowl of the purest white tallow.

_Frideth?_

_Do not worry, Elijah. So small a thing cannot hurt me!_ Elijah had never heard her sound so close to patronizing.

Meretin bowed politely to the great queen, but before he could even voice his request, she stretched out her foreleg to enable the tight wrapping that would raise the vein. Either the thorn was the biggest Meretin possessed or he had found the very weakest place, for glistening green ichor ran quickly, glistening green, into the tube prepared for it. 

Elijah swallowed. The amount was so small in comparison with the bulk of a dragon queen and there was not the smallest echo of pain from her mind to his, yet he had flinched as the thorn was inserted, remaining tense through every single drop that flowed. He watched as Meretin deftly halted the flow with a twist of the thong, exchanged the almost full tube for an empty one, released the thong and let the ichor flow once more. After what seemed both forever and no time at all, the healer was withdrawing the thorn and swabbing redthorn solution over the tiny incision. 

Candessa was swiftly at hand to deal with the samples, inserting stoppers, firmly wrapping each label about with thread, crisscross fashion, with more than one knot along the way. These would not come loose if she could help it. Lastly, she painted melted tallow around the top, dipped the tube briefly in a pan of iced water to chill the contents, then dried and set it back amid the ice chips.

Elijah finally let go the breath he’d been holding far too long. ‘There, you see?’ he said to the others, all encouragement now. ‘It was so quick we barely noticed!’ 

Well, at least half that statement was truth. By the time a weyrwoman discovered that the other half was not, Meretin would have his samples of ichor and she would no longer care. Elijah hoped.

Frideth hummed softly in his mind as he held out his own arm for Meretin to tightly wrap the very much shorter thong, reassuring her rider that it had not hurt at all. He smiled as the thorn went in and her hum stuttered for a moment. His queen was as worried for him as he had been for her. 

When his own bright red samples were sealed, labeled and set in ice, and Meretin and Candessa ready once more, he turned to the Weyrwoman. ‘Lenara—perhaps you and Conireth would take your turns next?’

Frideth took herself off to rejoin Sammath on their ledge, and Lenara hesitantly called Conireth down. Meretin brought out another of the prepared bottles and a fresh thorn. 

Lenara frowned. ‘Elijah, are you sure Conireth will not be hurt?’

‘She will scarcely feel a thing at,’ Elijah said, with full truth this time. ‘Compared with what she suffered with her eggs, this is nothing, I promise you.’

‘I know it, really—it’s just… you know?’ 

Elijah nodded understandingly. He knew.

Lenara drew a deep breath. ‘Conireth, would you—?’ But before she could even finish asking, Conireth too had raised a foreleg to aid Meretin’s efforts. Elijah sympathized with the pallor of Lenara’s complexion as she watched, and with her startlement when the ordeal was over so quickly and without the bond with her queen registering anything at all.

Elijah noted with a mostly hidden grin how very low Conireth’s vast head hovered as Meretin quickly sampled her rider’s blood.

There was no problem whatever getting Narenis and Sinitroth to cooperate, and Riana brought Belteth down with only a little prompting. Jendria, however… 

‘It really will not hurt her,’ Elijah said yet again, through gritted teeth.

Jendria spun round on him. ‘You say that, but I saw Lenara’s face—and Riana’s!’

‘What you _didn’t_ see was either of their—any of _our_ —queens showing the least sign of pain. It hurt us to think about it, far more than it hurt them, to do it!’

‘I don’t care, I can’t let you!’ Jendria said, and set her bottom lip. 

‘Very well,’ Elijah said, ‘but think how you—’ he broke off, as Malanath landed neatly on the Sands behind her rider’s back and lifted her foreleg to Meretin. Elijah hastily grabbed hold of Jendria’s hands lest she turn too soon, and continued smoothly, ‘—how very disappointed Malanath will be if the healers find a cure and she is the only queen on Pern who hasn’t a part in it.’

Jendria’s eyes unfocused then, and Elijah waited to see what the queen would tell her rider. ‘Malanath says she wishes to do this but I am not to watch,’ she admitted.

‘Well, good. That’s very brave of you, and Malanath too,’ Elijah said, his tone positive but with both her hands still firmly clasped between his own to keep her from turning. He managed not to smile as she screwed up her face against the expected pain. ‘It will be over before you know it—there! And I’m sure you didn’t notice a thing!’ he added, seeing Meretin wield a redwort-soaked swab as Candessa quickly affixed labels to Malanath’s samples.

‘But—that’s it? Finished, already?’ Jendria said, whirling to look at her queen. ‘I hadn’t even called her down!’ She suspiciously eyed Elijah, but relaxed when Malanath obviously spoke to her.

‘All done—except for you, of course,’ Elijah prompted. ‘You wouldn’t want Malanath to think you afraid when she was so brave, now _would_ you?’

She did screw up her face again, as the needlethorn went in, and actually blanched to see her own blood flow so redly into each tube, but on the whole Jendria behaved far better through her own blood-letting than at the mere thought of her queen’s.

‘All finished, now!’ Meretin said. ‘Thank you, Jendria—and you, Malanath!’

After that, the younger two proved very easy indeed, Gilanth almost pushing her rider over to get to Meretin, and Toranith—Ciala reported with a grin—quietly grumbling that the littlest must always be last.

Not quite the last, of course. Elijah had spoken with Este and Darial—also well-used to minor Threadscore—who were most gratified to have their greens included in the blood collection alongside the queens. Maybe that was why Jadeth, Tabrath and their riders presented themselves to Meretin almost eagerly, when the weyrwomen were done. Since the Scourge affected only queens, he and Elijah had decided that samples from just two greens with female riders would be sufficient for comparison, if needed.

All that remained now, thought Elijah—fully aware of the irony in that compression of fact—was to persuade the rest of Pern’s queen-riders to allow their queens’ ichor to be sampled—and their own blood, too. It was not a task that he could undertake.

‘I’m sorry this must fall to you,’ he told Lenara. ‘I would gladly go if I didn’t know it would do more harm than good. You know as well as I do that almost every weyrwoman would take exception to my presence, and very likely refuse to have anything to do with the idea whatever.’

Lenara nodded understandingly. ‘Don’t worry so much! With the MasterHealer making it an official request, as part of the ongoing investigation, and me there to convince them Conireth didn’t feel a thing, I’m sure they’ll cooperate!’

‘I just don’t want any of them to refuse and then feel they missed out, later. The Scourge affects every queen and rider on Pern and it is only right that every one of them should have a part in this, especially if the healers that Sea'n finds truly understand how to use blood or ichor or both to make a remedy for what ails them.’ 

As much as anything, Elijah didn’t want to give anyone an excuse to point the finger afterward but he kept that part to himself.

The whole thing passed off far more easily than he had dared hope. Along with Meretin and Candessa—the one now most dexterous at the task, if less than comfortable a-dragonback—went not only Lenara and K'vret but Riana and A'sren. 

Elijah anticipated most resistance from Crista, and was amazed when the collection party quite speedily returned from Igen with both both sets of glass tubes well-filled, white labels tightly bound across the red and the green. No sooner had they landed than Meretin passed the precious burden over to Sea'n, to be whisked away and stored in the ice cavern.

Lenara grinned at Elijah then. ‘D'trel enjoys his weyrmate—often—and Crista is quite content to have it so!’ she said. ‘The others couldn’t really say no when she agreed so readily to his prompting!’

Elijah was more than ever relieved to hear of Crista’s new-found contentment with D'trel, if it could persuade the most affected of the queen-riders to co-operate so swiftly. That there was also relief of a different kind was not mentioned, but Sea'n—unknowing if wholly appreciative—reaped full benefit in their bed that night, beneath Elijah’s loving mouth and hands.

Matters proceeded quite smoothly at Ista, too. Riana had fostered alongside Anditra long ago, and the Weyrwoman’s trust in her foster-sister held fast, despite the ravages of the Scourge. She quite readily persuaded her queen-riders to submit to the taking of both blood and ichor. 

Later, however, Elijah heard a rather different reason for their readiness to take part. 

K'vret accompanied his Weyrwoman on each visit, of course, as much to protect Lenara should it be necessary as to lend his authority to proceedings. The Weyrleader had no idea that Elijah was close at hand that evening, waiting in Meretin’s little dispensary for the healer to return from a visit to a sick rider. If he had, he would never even have dreamed of sniggering, along with A'sren, C'ter and one or two others, at the boastfulness of Ista’s bronze-riders. 

The latter had apparently insisted—at a safely discreet distance from any queen-rider’s ears—that the key to obtaining such cooperation was the earlier, overwhelmingly skilful application of their own, much-vaunted lustiness—due, they claimed, to the constant overheating of _their_ blood in so hot a climate.

At High Reaches, any difficulty was swept away by Weyrleader R'faen, who was seemingly convinced that Ravne and Palanth would be sufficient, once the young queen flew, to replenish his dragons with the numbers he lacked. He said so—loudly and with great conviction. Weyrwoman Doriah quite naturally took affront at this, positively insisting that samples be taken at once, so that _all_ the queens might have a part in the regeneration of the Weyrs. Before she could have second thoughts as to exactly what she had just agreed to, Meretin’s needlethorns were out and the queens lined up for sampling, Palanth not the least. 

R'faen had boldly winked at the Telgar riders, once the tubes were all safely filled, labeled and nested in their box of ice for the trip across Pern.

The visit to Fort took up almost half of a day chosen to be Threadfree for both Weyrs. Although their dragons reported no actual obstacle to the collection, Elijah could not be easy until Frideth and Sammath simultaneously announced the return of the entire party, samples and all.

‘V'rise, of course,’ said K'vret, when they landed at last. ‘He just wouldn’t shut up—had to talk it up, down, in and out, till he’d covered every possibility and several we haven’t even thought of—not that his ideas on what the Healer Hall could want with so many vials of blood and ichor are of much use.’

They had agreed to keep secret the ultimate destination of the samples, even from the other Weyrleaders, until all were safely obtained. Given the influence of the Scourge, there was otherwise too much risk in a mere whisper of a rumor that either Sea'n or Elijah was involved.

‘And Perrenac was there too, I expect…’ Elijah lightly suggested. At K'vret’s grimace, he glanced over at Sea'n, who was transferring the basket carefully from Geneth’s back to Sammath’s for transfer to the ice cavern. They grinned at each other, then looked away hastily before grins could become outright laughter. 

‘Although,’ added K'vret, ‘in a way I almost wish we’d gone there first. Once V'rise stopped talking and started actually _doing_ , the way he organized the collecting was quite a bit more efficient!’

Elijah had wondered before this, how V'rise could possibly have the flexibility of mind to remain Weyrleader—how Eirlith could have approved Pogreth for so long. It seemed that once he had examined all possibilities to his satisfaction and formed a plan, he was both fast and capable in execution.

Now, of course, Elijah had far more to occupy him than the competence of Weyrleaders. Now the samples were all safely encased in the ice that would keep them fresh for the healers of a past time to work with, Sea'n’s departure was not only inevitable, but imminent.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	20. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_… we cannot pack the most basic need of all …_

‘Jerah always used to say, 'Plan for the worst and hope for the best',’ said Elijah, remembering his mother’s brisk provision for each cold season. ‘She knew what she was facing, of course. It’s trickier when we have no idea how you’re going to find a healer willing to help you, let alone one who actually _can_. And anyway, you don’t want to be beholden to them for _every_ thing.’

‘It would be a whole lot easier if I could just fly Sammath to one of the Weyrs—here, even—or straight to the Healer Hall!’ Sea'n grumbled. Keeping his presence completely secret seemed likely to be the most difficult part of the whole thing—the journey aside, of course.

‘Well, if you did, it isn’t in the records— _any_ of them.’ Elijah could be quite certain of that, having spent more time than anyone poring over ancient and barely legible tomes. ‘I still can’t believe something as incredible as a dragon arriving from turns in the future could simply have been forgotten. There has to be a reason the harpers don’t sing about your journey.’ 

_Other than the fact that you and Sammath stay lost_ between _, and never arrive anywhere at all…_ Sea'n heard, unspoken. It could happen, he knew. He just didn’t believe it would.

‘I know,’ he said aloud. ‘Maybe I’m really, _really_ good at persuading people to keep secrets?’ Elijah snorted, and Sea'n had to admit he may have a point.

Elijah had accepted that Sammath and he were going to do this. Had to do it. Sea'n knew he didn’t like the scheme one bit, and still thought some other bronze-rider should go in Sea'n’s place. When Sea'n insisted it must be the two of them because of Sammath said so, Elijah tried arguing with the bronze, which Sea'n could have told him was a complete waste of effort. Sammath would only say, over and again, that he and Sea'n had to leave—that they were _needed_. Eventually Frideth too repeated her conviction and Elijah finally, though reluctantly, gave in and admitted they must go.

Sea'n knew he was torn between support for his mate and fear of the many things that could go wrong. Keeping him focused on the practicalities of his journey was one way Sea'n found to keep Elijah’s anxiety to reasonable levels. Loving him into sleep at night was another. 

‘Just because _you_ can’t resist my totally compelling powers of persuasion!’ Sea'n said now, trying for a smile from him and almost succeeding. 

‘We must have managed it some other way. Perhaps we met a dragon and his rider somewhere outside of a Weyr and never actually visited one? It would make sense then to keep us hidden away, so their weyrlings and maybe some of their more reckless youngsters wouldn’t try the same thing and get lost _between_. For all we know, Sammath and I might even be _why_ Weyrlingmasters are still so keen to warn about the dangers of falling through time.’ He winced, realizing too late that last part would have been so much better left unsaid. 

Luckily Elijah hadn’t picked up on it. An abstracted frown meant he was following a different line of thought, now. 

‘We don’t actually know,’ he said slowly, ‘that they’ll even _be_ there—the Weyrs, I mean. We do know Fort was the first to be established, both Hold and Weyr. But what happens if you arrive in the time before Fort was even _there_?’

‘That,’ said Sea'n, ‘could be a problem! But people and dragons still had to live _some_ where, before Fort and the rest. Maybe they lived in the smaller holds—smaller caves? There just aren’t that many, though…which must be why they moved to Fort in the first place! You’re sure there’s nothing in the records to say where?’ 

Elijah sighed. ‘Other than those vague references to ‘moving North to shield’ in Fort’s oldest records, nothing. Not a word about where they moved _from_. I’ve wondered about it before now, but even Perrenac couldn’t tell me more. And if _he_ can’t…’ He left the sentence unfinished, and Sea'n felt quietly guilty for being grateful Elijah been the one to find that out. 

‘That would make it a lot more difficult even to find a healer, let alone one with a sharding solution!’ 

‘If you and Sammath are truly meant to go, you will find one,’ Elijah said, his eyes dark and serious. ‘But it’s not something we can plan for from here, because we have no way of knowing when—or even where—you’ll land. You could be klicks from any hold at all, much less one you actually recognize. What we do know is how cold and hungry you’ll both be. You should bring food with you, and especially for Sammath—to start with, anyway. No herder is going to like Sammath hunting his beasts when he’s not even one of the dragons that protect his hold!’

‘There’ll be wild wherries about, somewhere,’ Sea'n said comfortably.

‘Quite probably, but they don’t flock everywhere on Pern, and we can’t be sure they’ll be anywhere close to where _you_ are. And if you’re flying to Ram Telgar’s star pattern,’ Elijah pointed out, ‘you can’t even be sure where the nearest land will be—all those islands, remember? Also, there’s an even chance it’ll be closer to dusk than dawn and maybe too dark by the time you’ve unloaded, even if there’s anything around to hunt. So, herdbeasts—enough for then, at least.’

Sea'n nodded. ‘True—Sammath is always hungry after we’ve timed it, even just a short jump. Better bring a handful—maybe a couple more, even. He’ll eat that many before they have chance to turn.’ Dragons were most particular about eating fresh kills. They would not even _look_ at meat that had begun to smell.

‘What about you?’

‘Klahbark!’ Sea'n said emphatically. 

‘And sweetener,’ Elijah added. Sea'n looked at him pityingly, and Elijah grinned back. He knew, really, that it hadn’t needed saying.

‘Bread and some cooked meat, at least.’

‘Meat rolls.’

‘Fruit? Maybe a few bubbly pies?’

‘No bubble when they’re cold,’ Elijah reminded him.

‘Still good, though. Not everyone likes a burnt mouth and fingers!’ Sea'n leaned to kiss him lightly. Yes, he would take them, bubble or no, if Candessa would provide—for the memories they’d bring as much as their tangy flavor.

‘What else?’

‘Salt.’

‘Maybe we could get some of the dried foodstuffs the traders use to save the weight for trade goods. They cook down into a stew—it’s quite tasty.’ When Sea'n lifted a brow in surprise, Elijah explained, ‘The trader train waited out one really wet spell at the hold. Part of the trail washed away and they helped re-build, so they stayed for quite a while. Rontel and I were friends with the trader’s son, and we ate with them sometimes.’

‘Nowhere near as good as tubers roasted in the ashes of a fire, I’ll wager! Tubers, for sure!’ Elijah looked dubious and Sea'n pulled a face. ‘I know they’re bulky, but they take no effort to cook. I can leave them in the ashes of my fire while we go look for the healers—and they’re _filling_ ,’ he said. He could hear himself practically wheedling. 

‘Tubers, then,’ Elijah conceded. ‘I don’t want you going hungry!’

‘Oatmeal—and flour, too, for twists and flatbread when the bread’s gone.’

Elijah looked away at that, and Sea'n put a hand out to him. ‘Elijah?’

‘It’s just—we don’t know how long _you’ll_ be gone.’ 

‘I shall be gone no longer than I must, I promise. But as Meretin said, it may take time even to find a healer who will help. We have no idea how long it may take for his Hall—if he even has one—to do whatever they need to with the samples I bring and find out what the Scourge is. Then they’ll need time to discover a cure, if that’s possible—which I believe it _is_ ,’ he added when Elijah looked at him doubtfully.

Whatever his doubts on that, he was quite right about Sea'n not wanting to be beholden. If he had his own small camp, where he could feed himself if not Sammath, he would feel less like one of the holdless. He would try to find a cave for shelter——maybe even take over one of those abandoned when Fort Weyr was formed. There, he could feel safe from Threadfall, no matter Master Galdine’s opinion on the star pattern’s intimation of relative safety. His belongings too could stay safe while Sammath flew him, as secretly as may be, in search of a healer.

‘You’ll have to bring marks with you, though I have no idea how many,’ Elijah said then. ‘No point in taking trade goods—they’d be bound to be the wrong kind. Just extra weight and bulk, anyway.’

‘Marks?’ Sea'n had intended to take a few of his own, of course, but—

‘ _Marks_ ,’ Elijah said firmly. ‘We are not _their_ dragonriders and our fate is not their responsibility. We should at least offer to pay the healers, both for their work and for the remedy or whatever it is you shall bring back with you.’ Sea'n could hear the deliberately positive note in his voice.

‘I don’t think Telgar should be the only Weyr to pay for it, though—not if you’re bringing samples from all of Pern’s queens. The same from each Weyr, or so many marks per queen, since some have more and some less? What do you think, Sea'n?’

‘We’ll let that be K'vret’s problem. He can sort it out with the other Weyrleaders. I just have to carry them—among so many other things!’ Sea'n said, and rolled his eyes.

‘Sammath will be the one carrying them— _and_ you!’ said Elijah. ‘Speaking of leaders,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘I think you should take your gather clothes, too.’

Sea'n stared at him. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Well, you’re going to be asking a great deal of the people you meet, and you may well need formal approval from their leaders. A well-worn shirt and breeches, riding jacket slung casually over one shoulder, may get _my_ pulse racing, but I doubt they will impress any Lord Holder you may encounter. If they even have Lords Holder where— _when_ you’re going. And your gather tunic is really… impressive!’

In truth, Sea'n felt a bit conspicuous in that tunic, even at a gather—and here was Elijah encouraging him to wear it among strangers and somewhere he wasn’t even meant to be. It was made with love, in his mother’s careful stitchery. Sea'n knew just how long it had taken her to complete as her hands got slower and stiffer toward the end. It was her last gift to him. 

But the embroidery that encircled the cuffs lightly enough spread ever more luxuriantly as it wreathed its way from forearm to shoulder to chest. Such a wealth of gold thread over deep sea-green made the tunic far more imposing than he’d really want it to be—though its effect on Elijah made it always worth the wearing.

They couldn’t share memories like that without a few kisses, and it was a while before Elijah said lightly, ‘There might even _be_ a gather. Just remember—’

‘Always!’ said Sea'n, not waiting for him to finish.

There was a pause.

‘Of course, the easiest thing,’ Sea'n’s tone was deliberately casual, now, ‘would be to look pitiful and hold out a carrysac for Candessa to fill— _she’ll_ know what I should bring.’

‘As long as she remembers you’ll probably be cooking over an open fire.’

‘Tinderbox!’ they said together. 

‘Or two, perhaps, to be on the safe side,’ Sea'n said, solemnly, and Elijah grinned at him. ‘Also, an ax for the firewood!’

‘Better make sure the holder doesn’t catch you chopping down his precious trees!’

‘A few pans—maybe a spider?’

‘A _spider_?’ echoed Elijah.

‘Did you never have cookouts at home? We had them on restdays, on the beach—whole families together. That was when I learned to cook over a fire. I used to be real handy at it! A spider is a skillet with legs—you stand it right in the coals, wherever the heat’s good for what you’re cooking. I wonder if Candessa has a smallish one tucked away somewhere?’

‘Knowing Candessa, I’d expect so!’

‘It might be an idea,’ Sea'n said thoughtfully, ‘to make myself a sling—or better still, borrow one from a cot-holder’s lad, if I can. New ones take time to wear in.’

‘But do you know how to _use_ one?’ Elijah teasingly asked.

Sea'n pretended a glare at him. ‘I’ll have you know that bringing down fliers for the pot with just a few stones and a sling is another thing I used to be pretty good at. It was a while ago, though,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll need to practice.’

‘Let’s just hope it’s a skill you don’t grow out of!’ said Elijah, not very successfully stifling a laugh.

The list of things went on and on. Knives and spoons, a couple of deeper pans, a water skin or two, maybe a canvas bucket in case there was no handy stream to wash in. An oiled sheet to sleep on, though he’d have furs enough, with all those Elijah planned to wrap him in for the long cold journey. Meretin and Candessa also provided, each in their own way, and the piles of equipment quickly began to mount up

If the secret were to be kept however, it simply was not possible to store very much at one time in Frideth’s weyr, where a casual visitor may see and begin to wonder. Elijah and Sea'n chose instead an isolated cot, high up on a plateau that dropped suddenly to the valley where the young Dunto River ran. Although sturdily stone-built, the cot was abandoned when the Pass began, being too far from its parent hold for comfort when Thread was falling. 

Even then, Frideth and Sammath could only make so many journeys carrying bulky loads before questions began to be asked, no matter how idle the curiosity. It soon became clear that the plan would need the services of a less noticeable assistant. The comings and goings of a younger rider would be less remarked, since goods-conveyance duty was always a possibility. It was an easy choice to ask K'rel to be that rider.

Even with Feruth to see for him, he would never take the ability to move freely as casually as his peers. Whatever he was doing, Sea'n thought, you could still almost _see_ him enjoying that freedom as others never would, unless injury forced it upon them. He was learning now to move with stealth—and he was surprisingly good at it.

When Sea'n returned to the cot after the lapse of a sevenday, he couldn’t imagine how such a quantity of _things_ could have been brought here without the Weyr in general being aware of it. They weren’t all such small things, either. There was bucket after bucket of numbweed, for example—in liquid form, tightly lidded—with a soft mop, for swabbing. At Elijah’s insistence, Sea'n knew, in case of need. Also, a large pot of the salve for him, too, of course. Just in case. 

Master Galdine’s idea of relative safety—in that Ram Telgar’s formation of stars was not _quite_ that of a Pass—was clearly not sufficient for Elijah’s peace of mind. When it came to Thread, safe was better by far than sorry, he said. For this enterprise it had become even more his maxim than Sea'n’s. 

K'rel had not brought it all alone, though he was the one who borrowed a sling from one of the coastal holder lads, for Sea'n to use. He even collected a handful of the best kind of stones to bring with him—smooth, round and weighty. 

There was little time for practice, but Sea'n soon proved he had not entirely forgotten his skill. Several times he brought down waterfowl at the river mouth where they flew thickest. He and Elijah would fly out to their meadow then, roasting them over a fire there and making new memories for Sea'n to bring with him when he left. 

Occasionally they flew back to the cot to share the succulent fowl with K'rel and Pr'len.

It was inevitable Sea'n realized, that Pr'len would find his way into the secret. He watched his wing-leader far too closely for Sea'n’s comfort sometimes, though Elijah just smiled and said Pr'len was welcome to his watching, since that was all it would ever be. They could trust him with this. 

Initially, there was some friction between the two, when Pr'len realized K'rel was included already where he was not. Even he had to admit the boy was the less noticeable of the two, however, and he soon settled into the position of stealthy collector of necessities which K'rel and Feruth then flew out to the cot.

Sea'n pushed his way though the curtain into their weyr, carrying an armful of spare furs. If anyone had asked, the nights were growing chilly as the turn grew toward the cold season, but no-one did. He’d hoped Elijah was still with Candessa, urging her into making the bubbly pies Sea'n was to bring with him. 

But Elijah was here already. He didn’t hear Sea'n come in. His expression puzzled, he was busy twisting apart the two halves of a stiffened wher-hide tube Sea'n thought he had been hiding quite well. It was obviously a mistake to have gotten it out of the clothes chest before he had more than a revealingly empty carrysac to hide it in. He just hadn’t expected Elijah to get here before him, and hoped he would think it a map or chart, if he did.

With a rueful shrug, he stood quietly, watching. Elijah was carefully unrolling what slid out of the tube. ‘Oh,’ he said, and smiled at what he’d found.

During their stay at High Reaches Weyr, they had met Crisolen, a journeyman harper with the talent to capture a true likeness. He had always leaves of parchment and drawing sticks to hand, taking rough sketches that may or may not develop into more detailed pictures. Sea'n had bought from him a drawing of Elijah, paying extra not only for him to turn sketch into portrait, but to complete it with color.

It showed Elijah in profile as he hugged himself to Frideth’s massive golden head. His cheek was tinted to a pale rose, his lips a darker shade, full of warmth and with a slight sheen. His eyes were almost closed—only a sliver of blue to be seen, lightly smudged in black.

Elijah turned then and saw Sea'n. Setting the picture safely aside he dragged a strap across the curtain and pounced before Sea'n had time to realize what he was about. The furs spilled from his grasp, scattering usefully into a makeshift bed right there in the centre of their weyr.

When Elijah was finally forced by a lack of breath to release his dazed mate’s mouth, he smiled happily. ‘I love you,’ he said, all consideration of the future forgotten for some time.

Next day, however, when Sea'n returned to the weyr with a small collection of spices and other oddments Candessa insisted he would need, his welcome was far less agreeable.

Elijah stood with arms folded, his expression as stubborn as Sea'n had ever seen it. ‘You can’t go,’ he said baldly.

‘Elijah, I _must_ go. I thought we were agreed on this.’ Sea'n knew he sounded a little impatient, but—

‘No, Sea'n, not, ‘I don’t want you to go’ which I don’t, but that’s not the point here. You _can not_ go. We can plan to keep you warm so you don’t freeze _between_. We can load up Sammath with food and water and numbweed, and—and whatever gear you may need while you’re there,’ he waved an impatient hand at what Sea'n carried, ‘but we cannot pack the most basic need of all!’

Light dawned on Sea'n’s face, but Elijah said it anyway.

‘ _Air_ , Sea'n. There’s no air—there is nothing— _between_. We aren’t usually there long enough for it to be a problem, but we know now that a time jump takes longer than a place one. Not much, but we’ve only tried going back sixty or so turns. We have no idea how many turns back the Tally Box stars will take you, but it has to be many times that—several hundreds at the least—if you’re to have a hope of finding what we need. So, you may be _between_ a long time—and without air to breathe, you will _die_ —both of you!’ His anguish was clear in his eyes and in his voice.

Sea'n drew a long breath and blew it out again with a rueful laugh. ‘Shards!’ he said, and brought Elijah into a hug. ‘All the other stuff we’ve prepared, how come we didn’t think of that before? You’re right, of course—as usual!’ He nuzzled through Elijah’s hair and nibbled lightly at an earlobe. ‘I know the more turns we cross, the happier I am when I can breathe clear air again, but…’ 

He shook his head at his own failure to realize, still holding Elijah close as he said, ‘Well, I still have to go—we both know that.’ Elijah’s head nodded against his shoulder. ‘Perhaps Master Calomar may know of some means to make it possible.’

Elijah stiffened. ‘What about Sammath?’ he said. ‘Even if the Mastersmith could—’

_I can hold my breath, Elijah. For a very long time._

_How long is very long?_ he demanded suspiciously.

_Long enough,_ said Sammath. _I know it._

‘Hmm.’ Elijah didn’t sound convinced but he let himself be distracted enough to do some nuzzling of his own, finding Sea'n’s neck and kissing it lightly. ‘I didn’t want you to go, to start with. I won’t let you go at all if we can’t even be sure you’ll survive till you actually _get_ wherever that star pattern shows—but,’ he sighed heavily, ‘we really need what you would have brought back.’ 

Sea'n hugged him again. ‘I do have to go, so we shall find a way,’ he said doggedly. Elijah only nodded, knowing it would happen—that Sea'n and Sammath _must_ go.

‘Couldn’t I just take a—a bottle or something, and suck the air out of that?’

Elijah held him at arm’s length and simply looked at him.

‘Well, why not?’

‘Have you ever tried it?’

‘My mother taught me it was rude to drink from the bottle!’ Sea'n primly said, just to make Elijah smile. ‘Stupid question,’ he said then, ‘I just wasn’t thinking.’

‘We don’t have any real idea how long you’ll need to _keep_ breathing,’ Elijah said, and smiled again, if only faintly, when Sea'n wiggled his eyebrows at him. ‘Well, of course, but I meant while you’re _between_!’

Master Calomar at the Smithcraft Hall could offer no advice on that point, of course, but he was instantly taken by the problem they brought him.

‘You are correct, of course,’ he said, ‘that a bottle would be of no use—the same being true of any rigid container. If the air cannot be replaced, a vacuum is created and breathing becomes impossible. A bladder will work for a short time—shell-fishers use them, blowing each breath out into the water and coming to the surface before the air is all gone. But you say it must last through an unspecified period of time, with no certainty as to when the 'surface' may be regained. Hmm… a pretty problem…’ 

He tapped a finger thoughtfully against his upper lip and gazed around, clearly unaffected by the noise going on all around him, no matter how distracting Sea'n found it. 

‘No such simple matter as replacing empty with full, of course, _between_ being what it is. You would have to make do with just the one vessel, whatever it may be. And yet, you _can_ only breathe the same air so many times if you expect to survive the experience. It’s not long before you pass out, and you feel terrible when you come round. Believe me, I know.’ 

Sea'n thought the remark a pleasantry till he saw Calomar was in earnest. He took his work _very_ seriously. 

‘So it isn’t possible at all?’ Hope and disappointment lay merged within Elijah’s question.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that… It may simply be a matter of _cleaning_ the air so it can be re-breathed…’ Calomar’s eyes unfocused so far, Sea'n thought he very much had the look of a rider talking with his dragon. He realized this must be Master Calomar in the throes of an idea—somewhat like Carlen with his master-work, and even Elijah, sometimes. 

The two riders stood patiently, staring around the vast workshop at unfamiliar items lying in pieces on each bench, or assembled already into one of the many devices that whirred or clattered or dinged. From the hearths at the far end of the Hall came the steady beat of many hammers on metal—which was more what Sea'n had expected to find here. 

Really, with the amount of noise going on, it was quite remarkable that anyone could actually _think_ of anything at all. The smiths, however—from masters and journeymen even to those who were clearly very young apprentices—seemed too deeply intent on the bits of metal, wheels, wires or whatever else they were working with, to notice, let alone be distracted by it.

Eventually, Calomar realized Sea'n and Elijah were still waiting.

‘I beg your pardon, riders!’ he said. ‘I may be able to find a solution for you but it will take time and trial. I think I may have an answer for you in a day or two.’

They had no sooner returned to the Weyr than Elijah, imperiously instructing Sammath to wait with Sea'n on the rim, flew Frideth right down into the Bowl and then vanished toward the Caverns. He emerged carrying something too small for Sea'n to see, hurried back to Frideth and directed both dragons to go _between_ to their meadow. Once there, he insisted Sammath should make good his boast—with Elijah sitting so close to his muzzle he couldn’t possibly miss a single, cheating breath. 

Sammath did.

Afterward, while urging his bronze to eat—quickly, before he got any paler—Sea'n still had no better idea of how long might be long enough. He did know he could rely on Sammath to _almost_ outlast Candessa’s quarter-hour sand timer.

‘It’s a pity we can’t use one of these to see how long a time jump takes, but there aren’t any to measure that short a time,’ he said, ‘and we could hardly ask for one to be made without provoking awkward questions.’

‘Well, we can’t exactly borrow the Weyr clock!’ Elijah grinned and rolled his eyes, as Sea'n imagined ClockMaster Jacony’s absolute horror at the thought.

Each Weyr possessed but the one clock, a large, imposing and much venerated item that presided over the Council room—safely if not very conveniently situated. From day to day it was tended by the Weyrharper—Carlen, in Telgar’s case—but twice a turn, Master Jacony of the Smithcraft Hall would pay a ceremonial visit in order to regulate its movement with readings from the sun’s position. 

The clock itself was far too precious ever to be moved, of course—hour glasses being the common method of measuring time—but Elijah’s smile at Candessa was sufficient for a loan of the quarter-hour kitchen glass.

The air above their meadow was warm, the grass soft and pleasant to lie on, after which Sammath must fly straight after his meal. It was thus some time before they returned to the Weyr to find brown Sheroth, the Smithcrafthall’s watch dragon, perched on the heights.

Sea'n and Elijah directed their dragons to land in the Bowl, exchanging a look that mingled hope and disappointment—mostly the latter. Had Master Calomar sent Ty'an with regrets already? But no—there was the Master himself, seated by the big hearth. Candessa was plying him and the brown-rider with klah after the cold of _between_. 

Had the Master brought his own apologies for an inability to supply their need?

Sea'n thought so at first. Then he noticed the tightly stitched and oiled leather bag that lay on the bench beside him. A tube—presumably to breathe through—stuck out the top and straps indicated it was to be worn at Sea'n’s back. 

‘Each time you breathe out,’ Calomar explained, ‘the air is 'cleaned' so you can breathe it over and again. Try it.’

Sea'n took the tube into his mouth. He sucked, blew out and sucked again—all the while trying to keep the disgust from his face. This would work, however foul-tasting, and he would not have the Master think him ungrateful. 

Calomar only nodded. ‘Not pleasant, I know, but it will work. Now, the most vital thing is to keep the apparatus upright. At the bottom of the bag there is an absorbent—rope yarn soaked in a caustic solution. It must _not_ come into direct contact with any part of you, Bronze-rider, and especially not your mouth.’

‘I’ll not be tempted to let it,’ said Sea'n, ‘when the fumes alone taste like that!’

‘My apprentices have tested it by a half-hour glass and turned it once before the efficacy was lessened. I trust this will meet the need?’

Even Elijah had to admit that it would. That was far longer than Sammath could hold his breath, and he was confident he could outlast the journey.

Sea'n wasn’t sure what he was now—either wildly excited or totally terrified—and probably both at once. But with that problem solved, he no longer had any excuse at all to delay his journey.

~~~~\~~/~~~~

**A/N 1** : You may find it difficult to believe that Mastersmith Calomar could come up with the idea of using Caustic potash to remove CO2 from the air. Read about [the production of HNO3](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hno3)—so freely available on McCaffrey's _Totally-Without-Technology_ Pern—and perhaps the idea that smiths managed also to be minor chemical engineers may not be so hard to accept! I, of course, am neither. Calomar’s ‘solution’ is adapted from Fleuss’s apparatus of 1878, and _ought_ to be viable for long enough… I wasn't convinced the Pernese of Sea'n’s time _should_ have the technology to compress oxygen.

 **A/N 2** : Anyone who doubts the Pernese measured time with any precision—during Lessa’s Pass, let alone this earlier one—might care to check within McCaffrey. In Master Harper of Pern, Robinton wishes he could sleep round the clock; Dragonsinger refers to minutes/hours more than a dozen times, and there are many other instances. If it’s in canon, I can extrapolate!

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	21. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…dragon and rider were gone, away into the past…_

Elijah scattered dirt over the embers of their fire. It had burned from early morning, heating the many stones to lap in furs about Sea'n’s body. It had also kept hot a kettle of Candessa’s thick and hearty stew, and brewed the klah he had almost forced on Sea'n, who must be warm both inside and out before he attempted this almost impossible flight. Now the last flickers of flame were stilled, the last warmth leaching into the air.

There seemed little enough to say—only light remarks in passing or those words necessary to the task—as the four riders made the final preparations for Sea'n’s journey. Sammath had fed again—one last herdbeast, at Elijah’s urging—blooding it only, to fuel this flight as effectively as for a mating queen. Then he crouched patiently while Elijah, Sea'n and Pr'len loaded him with the netted gear amassed under Elijah’s direction. The carcasses proudly brought by Frideth and Litanith were strapped on. 

‘Are you sure it’s not too much for him?’ Pr'len had asked, standing back and frowning as it began to seem that Sammath would almost disappear beneath his burdens. 

‘A dragon can carry as much as he thinks he can,’ Elijah pointed out, ‘and Sammath is confident he can carry this, for Sea'n.’

He had to remind himself of that—and check on Sammath’s continued confidence—when K'vret and Geneth arrived at the last, bringing the box of blood and ichor samples. 

Frozen hard before their packing, they nestled deep within a fresh box of chipped ice—Sea'n and a party of weyrlings had fun with that, under the pretext that Candessa needed all of it to make the sweetened, iced cream treat. The box was itself buried deep within another, a thick padding of sawdust crammed tight between the two. The folk of Ista kept winter-cut ice in just that way, and enjoyed chilled food and drink right through the hottest part of the turn. 

These, however, were destined on arrival to be hidden in an ice cavern, like Telgar’s own, or simply buried deep in snow amid Pern’s icy northern wastes. With luck they would still be usable when Sea'n found the healers he had traveled so far to seek. And preferably, Sea'n said with a laugh, hidden some place he could easily find them again. It would be too bad if he found the healer, only to lose the samples amid all that snow. 

Elijah had promptly added a banner of red cloth atop a sturdy pole to the piles of gear.

Sea'n himself, though, must be kept warm at all costs and longest of all today had been the task of preparing him for the time he must spend in the ice-cold of _between_. Sitting aboard Sammath already—for mounting would be all but impossible by the time they were done with him—he was swathed and wrapped until he resembled nothing more than a bundle of furs, topped with a vast wher-hide jacket specially sewn by Candessa. His legs too were fur-wrapped and hide-covered. Hot stones were tucked into pockets—again of Candessa’s making—between the layers of clothing and furs. At front and back, at neck and legs, even to those well-tied beneath the soles of his boots. 

Last of all, the breathing apparatus was strapped at his back, the tube placed in readiness but not yet taken into Sea'n’s mouth. K'vret and Pr'len spoke their farewells and good wishes, sliding away down Sammath’s sides, to leave the weyrmates alone together.

They had kissed and loved well last night, and before they left their weyr this morning. This was only the very last of so many farewells, and maybe it should not have mattered quite so much, but it did. Elijah could not let his mate go without one more kiss, be it never so difficult. Sea'n could barely move for the thickness of his padding, and his face was only just visible, deep within the fur-edged hood he wore over his usual helmet and goggles. 

‘Keep looking,’ said Sea'n. He even _sounded_ muffled to the eyeballs. ‘I’m in here somewhere, really I am! And the samples may not be melting yet, but I shall, if I don’t go soon!’ 

Elijah tried to smile, leaning close and pressing inward until he could just touch his mouth to Sea'n’s. ‘Better kisses than that when you come back to me!’ he promised, his voice choking in his throat. No matter. Sea'n understood all he wished to say, without any need for words.

‘Elijah, I—’ Sea'n broke off and said instead, ‘We _are_ meant to do this, Sammath and I, and we _shall_ come home again. It is time now,’ he said firmly, and Elijah settled the breather tube in his mouth, waiting until Sea'n nodded approval. With a rueful grin, he brought out the very last of his provisions for the journey—a clothespin to clip on Sea'n’s nose. The temptation to try and breathe that way was otherwise too great a risk, if he were to panic when he could not.

Closing the furs snug about Sea'n’s face, he tucked them tight around the tube, only a narrow tunnel left for vision. He covered all with the wher-hide hood, laid his head against Sea'n’s for a single moment more, then clambered reluctantly to the ground. 

As he backed away to give Sammath room, he was aware of the stretch and fold of green wings at the corner of his eye. Her color dulled now, Elijah doubted Saben would have recognized Litanith at a glance. Pr'len clearly had even less confidence in Sea'n’s eventual return than Elijah himself. He and K'vret had withdrawn to where she and Geneth waited now with Frideth. 

Elijah stood alone to watch the great bronze shuffle, every bit as ponderous as a gravid queen, toward the plateau’s edge. He smiled sourly. He could guess why Weyrleader and green-rider were lingering back there. But he was not stupid enough—with his mate scarcely distinguishable for his journey from a heap of heated fur-lined hides—to try and follow him clad only in the usual flying jacket.

He sighed. He was being totally unfair and he knew it. K'vret’s farewell to Sea'n had been full of respect and gratitude for this brave attempt on behalf of all the Weyrs. He could do no less for Sea'n than keep his mate safe for him until his return. 

Pr'len—well, Pr'len had hero-worshipped Sea'n since he first came to Telgar, but that had not stopped him from being a friend to Elijah, too—and a friend would offer his unspoken support at a time such as this. K'rel had wanted to be here too, of course, but K'vret had insisted one or the other might come, but not both. The flipped mark had landed in Pr'len’s favor.

Sammath paused at the brink. Elijah had insisted there was no sense in wasting precious energy having to actually _fly_ away into the past. A drop from this point would have them quickly airborne on one of the warm currents that swept always upward from the valley floor. 

The moment had come upon him too soon. The preparations—the only help he could give—were complete and set in place. If something had been overlooked despite all his careful planning, it was too late to mend, if not too late to worry at the omission. Only the journey remained, and in that, Elijah could have no part whatever.

The configuration of stars inside the lid of the Tally box was a real one, stars that really shone, over islands far to the south and east of Nerat’s tip, attested to by Master Galdine himself. But would it bring Sea'n safely to a _when_ that was real? To people both willing and able to help him to the cure their time so desperately needed? 

The great bronze teetered on that edge as Elijah swallowed one last cry of anguish that might have sought to keep Sea'n from the task he had set himself. 

The next moment Sammath seemed to simply lean forward and fall out into nothing—spread wings almost instantly capturing the rise of air that carried them up and away. A barely visible lift of Sea'n’s thickly swaddled arm and then…

…then, dragon and rider were gone, away into the past.

Soon enough three other dragons took off also, for Telgar Weyr. And all that remained of their passing was a heap of dirt-smothered ashes.

~~~~\~~/~~~~

_Breathe,_ Sea'n told himself. _You know you can—just use the tube and breathe!_

Though they had practiced this, the tube through which he must suck and blow was far stranger now than ever it had been where he could see it plain—in light and air, with his mate’s eyes laughing back at him for how ridiculous he looked with that in his mouth and a clothespin on his nose. 

‘No smell, no taste’, Elijah had cheerfully said, but any relief at the vanished taint was lost now for also losing sight and sound and touch, at the very same time. 

He had planned on steadily counting each breath—his measure of how long the ordeal may last. So that, when they flew home again, he could count them down, knowing each one was bringing him closer to where he wanted most to be. But that intent was also taken from him, by the knowledge— _the fear, Sea'n, admit it!_ —that this time, _between_ may truly have no end. 

He simply had not reckoned on the insidious, inexorable creep of unease, as the icy dark surrounded him. Ominous in a way he had not felt before—on and on and everywhere, and might well last forever. 

His count had never even begun.

_I am here._ Sammath’s stout reassurance rumbled in his mind. 

_I know,_ he answered, and he did, really. But common sense alone told him he still sat astride his dragon. He could not feel Sammath beneath him, nor any part of his own body with even taste and smell quite gone. There was nothing now but absence in this death-cold chill—his only comfort the familiar voice inside his head.

But they were not lost, he told himself firmly, for Sammath had the Tally Box picture firmly in his head. _Not_ lost forever in the blackness of _between_ —as Marco and Duluth had been the first, as so many others since. The many who had chosen oblivion in the endless clutch of icy nothingness, over a slow and wasting death. Over the hideous agonies of Thread that burrowed deep into the flesh of dragon or rider, or both.

_Breathe, remember to breathe…_

They were prepared for this journey, they were—as prepared as ever they could be. When _between_ was just the quick, totally discrete interval of cold and dark that separated one place from another, you could shrug it off. It was necessary—you went in, you came out, you went on. Not so easy when _between_ stretched on like this—and on…and on…

They were as prepared as any dragon and his rider could be, he knew it. Sammath’s stomach was as full as it could safely hold, with the blooding of that last kill. Sea'n’s, too—he may never enjoy Candessa’s stew again, having eaten so much of it at Elijah’s urging. ‘Warm inside, warm outside,’ he had insisted.

So, he was prepared. He was. Bundled in multiple layers—heavy clothes and unused furs that would never be missed till the cold of the turn. _Cold, but never as cold as this._

Succeed and such pilfering would be forgiven. Fail, and there would be fewer riders to need either clothing or furs ever again. And if Frideth could not provide, maybe none would remain at the last, to have need of them at all.

As they laid layer upon layer on Sea'n, Elijah and Pr'len—and even K'vret, a little—had lightened the moment with teasing. Swaddled in so much fur and hide this way, they said, anyone who saw him arrive— _if he arrived_ —would fall over laughing at the fattest person ever seen on Pern. 

He would be the fattest person ever, _between_ , if there were someone to see him. 

No-one would see him. No-one would laugh. No-one ever laughed, _between._

_Breathe, just remember to breathe…_

Still, he was prepared. Elijah had made sure of it.

Elijah said he must have heated stones inside the thick clothes and under the wher-hide, under the furs. Stones and yet more stones, wherever they would lodge—in his stockings, in his boots, at his back, in his trousers, even. Fingers curled tight about the stones within his thick-furred gauntlets, but the dark and cold were here too, and he could feel neither stones nor warmth, neither furs nor hide. 

His face was hidden—Elijah had hidden him deep inside the double-furred tunnel of his hood, where the cold and the dark should not find him. But they crept in anyway, past the silky pelts he could not feel. They crept up on him, the dark and the cold and the fear that nothing existed any longer, nothing but this. There could never again be anything beyond this close-muffled, deafening lack of light or sound or feeling.

_Breathe, breathe—remember to breathe…_

Empty of everything, he tried to mouth a word, a sound—tried to form it round the tube, tried for a word that might have been _Elijah_ —but it was stolen from him, stillborn. Black _between_ plucked it out of his mind without leave, before he could bring thought to action, and made it one with the desolate nothing.

Without pity, without rancor, the indifferent void robbed him of sight and sound, of taste and smell and touch. The darkness, the silence, the cold—an unalterable _absence_ that weighed down his mind and leeched his will from him. Unending, too powerful to resist…too much nothing, to resist…

_Breathe, Sea'n, breathe—remember to breathe…_

They were not lost, and he was not falling. He wasn’t. He couldn’t fall from Sammath, could he, because the riding straps were buckled tight. They were, he knew they were. He’d checked them. They were buckled so tight he could not fall—he had _checked. Elijah_ had checked, so he couldn’t be falling.

Could he?

_I am here,_ said Sammath. _I am here and you are not falling. We are_ between _but we are together._

Not falling. 

_You cannot fall, I shall not let you. Elijah will not let you. You have the safety straps. You have the tube and you can breathe. You have the stones and the furs, and you are warm enough. We shall survive this. Elijah has made sure of it._

Elijah.

He could breathe. He was warm enough. And they would survive.

_Elijah…_

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	22. Part Three: Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Summary** : As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_… he—and we—can only wait in hope …_

As if it were highday or a celebration of some kind—which it was, in its way, Elijah thought: a celebration of Sea'n’s bravery—a table was set aside for Weyrleader, weyrwomen, their mates, and for Elijah. This, as much as anything, alerted every rider even before Weyrleader K'vret stood to speak. Then Candessa led out her entire staff from hearth and serving tables—bakers, cooks, drudges and all—to line the cavern sides in the waiting silence. 

Conjecture had flown fast and roamed free from the moment the first Telgar rider, whoever he or she had been, realized that Sammath had not returned with his mate from their flight today. Not only was he not here—on her ledge or high on the rim—he was nowhere to be found by any dragon on Pern. 

And yet, no dragon on Pern had mourned—not even Frideth. 

No mind-shattering grief for a comrade lost, no indication that Sammath was lost—only the irrefutable, _inexplicable_ absence of both dragon and rider. 

‘Many of you have asked already,’ K'vret began, ‘and I expect others will be wondering where Sea'n and Sammath may be—where they can _possibly_ be, that your dragons can no longer bespeak Sammath. I can tell only you that they have—’ he paused, ‘—they have left in order to undertake a task on behalf of the Weyrs. A task which is vital to all of us and to the future of Pern.’

All eyes turned to Elijah and the vacant space at his side where Sea'n ought to be. 

He sat stiffly, head held high, proud of his mate and the courage he had shown in taking this dangerous flight for the sake of everyone here—of Pern itself. He was torn between that pride, and an unrelenting conviction that there must be more he could have done to keep Sea'n safe. 

Safe. If Sammath had succeeded, of course, he and Sea'n must be safe there already. Safe _then_ , in a time and place far beyond Elijah’s reach or aid. 

If not…

Both Elijah and his queen had been plagued with questions since returning to the Weyr. Frideth merely refused to respond to such importunacy, but for Elijah it was more complicated. Elijah found it more difficult to evade those riders who asked out of real respect and affection for Sea'n, than those who were mostly just curious. He remained adamant, however, that K'vret alone would explain tonight and to the entire Weyr at once.

Elijah had not intended to be here at all, having already assured the Weyrleader that Frideth would inhibit any other of Telgar’s dragons from attempting to follow the missing pair—whether from a naïve desire for glory or from misplaced zeal. When K'vret insisted he should be present, to honor Sea'n, there was no way Elijah could say no to that, no matter how much he wanted to be alone.

The Weyrleader proposed to tell only as much as might serve to reassure his riders, and perhaps curb a natural curiosity. His pause now was longer, allowing exclamation and query to swirl sharply round the cavern. Not until they quieted did he resume.

‘We hope that they may succeed, and that they shall return soon with the answer Sea'n seeks on behalf of every one of us. No matter your concern and wish to help, please do not demand further explanation than this. Should Elijah require assistance in the absence of his weyrmate, he will ask directly, and I trust each us will be available to support him. Otherwise, he—and we—can only wait in hope.’

He raised his winecup, and every rider stood to pledge faith in Sea'n and Sammath to complete the task, whatever it was and wherever they might be. As they sat once more, a babble of voices broke out over the clash of plates and dishes as the kitchen staff returned to work and prepared to serve the meal.

Elijah froze as the word _Ancients_ was hissed here and there across the cavern. Perhaps his request of Frideth must be made sooner than he had thought? But then _sky_ and _star_ filtered out from amid the general confusion, and he realized that more riders than a few beleived Sea'n had attempted a journey to the far-off world from which—so rumor had it—the first Pernese had come a-dragonback to make this their home.

 _It is done already,_ said Frideth. _I shall permit no other dragon so dangerous a venture. I love you, Elijah,_ she added as the breath stuttered in his chest.

_I know—and we have each other, still._

_We have each other._

The noise was almost unbearable now, each rider seeming intent on making his or her opinion heard on the subject of Sea'n’s disappearance, the object of his journey and where it might possibly have taken him. Elijah sagged back in his seat and fixed his gaze on a knot in the tabletop. If, given Sea'n’s absence, he must be the center of attention, he really did not wish to know it. 

Closer to hand, he could hear Lenara speaking quietly to K'vret, though not what she was saying. On his other side, Jendria leaned into D'stal, eyes misty as he whispered in her ear. They were together—very together—for the present. Elijah idly wondered if it would last and as idly doubted it. He had seen too many riders rise into and fall from her favor not to view this latest joining with a jaded eye. A handful of sevendays seemed the very longest a single rider could hope to hold her interest. 

Might they still be together when Sea'n returned, he wondered, and smiled wryly as he recalled the courting rhyme girls would sing as they plucked petals from the day’s eye flowers, in his faraway home at Anon Hold. 

_Holder, healer, dragonman, drudge…_

_This turn, next turn, sometime, never…_

But the memory twisted itself to question just how long _he_ must wait for Sea'n, and the wry smile was lost to a rising choke of breath.

There was no way even to _guess_ how long Sea'n may be gone from this time. And even then—if the Tally Box had proved a true guide for his journey into the past—would Master Elzin’s faithfully rendered drawing prove sufficient for his return?

Two evenings before Sammath was to fly away into the past—a clear night of two moons and as far between Threadfalls as might be—Elijah and Sea'n left Telgar and flew to collect Master Elzin from the Harper Hall. Elijah would not risk Sammath and Sea'n on the chance of a faulty memory, and so they brought Elzin, his parchment, his drawing board and sticks, to their hidden meadow. 

There, he captured all that was to be seen of the moon-whitened pasture, fringed in diverse tree-shadow and hemmed about with a distinctive fastness of mountain peaks. Above it, with all the skill and accuracy the Hall’s most accurate draftsman possessed, he set down the fixed brilliance of moons and myriad stars in the sky above.

It was not enough, but it would have to be. Elijah could think of no better way to provide an image of their time that Sammath could fly to. No-one could know exactly how much time may elapse here for Elijah, while Sea'n sought his answer, far back into Pern’s past. 

He had thought to closely question Galdine, MasterFisherman, as to the prediction of star paths, thinking to bring Sea'n a sevenday or two closer to home—although, closer to _when_? And Sammath had said quite firmly that he could not fly to a time that had not yet happened. But, that time _would_ already have happened for Elijah—shouldn’t that allow Sammath to fly there? It was a question Elijah feared could only be answered in the doing.

Commonsense said there was no way to predict the formation of heavy cloud cover or a thick mountain mist, on any later night than this. Sea'n must rely on Sammath to find both stars above and meadow below—and if that were not possible… Elijah swallowed. He dared not think what might happen to them, should such a thing occur—or maybe a late evening Threadfall…

Master Elzin’s drawing was as close to their time as Elijah could bring them. The rest must be left to a bronze dragon’s ability to find a queen of his Weyr, wherever and whenever in his own time she may be. This, they had tested—Sammath pursuing his weyrmate back through a sevenday or two, then a season and more. Even an entire turn—in case, said Sea'n, though he doubted the task would need so long a time. Elijah’s doubt had cut far deeper—soothed then by Sea'n’s tender reassurance, but rampant once more in his absence.

Dishes of food were arriving on the tables already, and the clamor of voices was displaced—first by a general clatter of plates and the ongoing clink of utensils, then by a quieter hum, as eating took precedence over talking. Candessa herself set a plate before Elijah and he thanked her, though he knew he could not eat. 

He reached for his wine again, raising his eyes for the first time to face the mass of riders below—and found himself looking straight into those of bronze-rider B'ratal. He was not sitting at his usual table, set a little to one side of the cavern. Tonight of all nights he occupied a central seat, exactly where Elijah must be in his direct line of sight. Far too close, and though he did eat, he seemed mostly to stare at Elijah without blinking.

Suppressing his shudder, Elijah took a gulp of the wine and looked quickly down again. Before Frideth’s maiden flight, B'ratal was the rider to whom he had most dreaded submission. His worst and most recurrent nightmare, as her time to fly drew ever nearer, had brought with it always the sensation of one of those huge red hands—hot and sweaty on his skin, splayed out upon his naked back—pushing him down as the other forced his thighs apart and—

Bile rose in his throat. The legs of his seat scraped loudly on the cold stone of the cavern floor as he abruptly stood, knowing he could sit here no longer. He mumbled excuses and made his way to the stairs, trying to hurry without seeming to, not wishing to draw further notice to himself. 

He knew it for a vain hope even before the chatter of voices quieted, then rose again, loud once more as he slipped into the shadows of the stairway. It faded when he passed through the curtain into the weyr, and he gradually ceased to be aware of it at all.

He folded down onto the long padded bench. Though the turns of his weyrmating with Sea'n, he had let go his fears of what might have happened, would have happened, had Sea'n not come to Telgar. B'ratal’s look had starkly reminded him of the days before…

 _It will be easiest for you on hands and knees, Elijah. You will be most available to the rider that way, and if you have generously used the salve I gave you, you should sustain least damage—but only if you do not fight him. If you allow him entrance it will at least be quickly over. Making love in this way is truly enjoyed by many of our riders—not all of them green—and a dragon-induced mating is seemingly the most pleasurable of all._

Meretin had meant well, of course. Attempting to ease a fear of the unknown by providing the most practical of information was the act of one close as a foster-father, as well as that of a healer. 

But Elijah had not believed that being taken in such a way could ever be termed _making love,_ nor that there could be any pleasure in it for him. His imagination had translated the advice into endless images that were all too clear: of bruising hands that tightly grasped his hips, of a rider, hot and eager, kneeling behind him. A rider who rutted into him, triumphant and uncaring—driving ruthlessly toward his dragon-led climax while Elijah screamed out his pain beneath him.

And it had not been at all like that in truth. From the first, Sea'n’s hands and his unexpected kisses had swiftly set Elijah’s body alight with anticipation and need. Then the shocking clutch of Sea'n’s mouth—a sudden liquid heat around him—had drawn from him pleasure beyond any he could have imagined—or hoped. Languid already, he had scarcely believed how fast desire rose in him once more as well-oiled fingers pushed inside. 

Sea'n had not turned him over, had not wanted a faceless rutting. He had not taken his eyes from Elijah, only lifted him so that he might watch him as they mated. And Elijah had seen ecstasy overtake Sea'n—even in the blurred confusion of a mating flight he had known it for the most beautiful sight on Pern. 

Since they became weyrmates in truth, they had made love in many different ways, all of them more than satisfying. But to do so when he could see Sea'n’s pleasure clearly was by far and away the one that pleased Elijah most.

They would have that again one day soon. Sea'n would come back to him. He had doubted it once before, and was then proved wonderfully wrong; he would not doubt again until he truly must. 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	23. Confirmation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥
> 
> Because AO3 counted the prologue as chapter 1, by the time I reached here, I somehow managed to forget my chapter numbers (as at Live Journal) were out by one. Chapter 23 was thus missed out altogether. Here, then is the _real_ chapter 23, with my apologies!

_…confirmation only of what he guessed already…_  


_Sammath is gone—his rider, too!_ Zendreth said suddenly. 

S'ttan stood in shock, too stunned even to wonder how Thread could possibly have taken Sea'n. There was only a vast and sudden emptiness within him, that waited for his dragon’s sorrow to flood his mind—for the voice of every dragon in the Weyr to echo his bereavement to the skies. 

It did not happen. No dragon marked the loss of one of their kind.

 _How can they be gone,_ he demanded of the silence in his head, _when you do not mourn, when the Weyr does not even_ know? __

_Sammath is no longer here._ Zendreth sounded unhappy and confused, now—but still he did not mourn. 

_No longer where?_

_No longer anywhere I can_ find _him!_ It was almost a wail.

More than anything, S'ttan wanted to fly to Telgar there and then, to find out what had happened to dragon and rider. It simply was not possible. For a dragonrider, allegiance to his Weyr must outweigh friendship every time—even one far deeper than most. 

Igen was preparing to meet Thread and it was perhaps as well for S'ttan that he had his duties as wing-leader to keep his mind from dwelling on a loss no-one else seemed to have noticed. A new batch of weyrling riders was slated to replenish firestone sacks, too. Despite all training and first time or not, nerves meant mistakes were made—not only by the tyros—and today would be no different. 

Zendreth would know if—when… Zendreth would tell him if anything changed.

When Fall was done, however, the bronze had no better news for him. S'ttan spoke with his riders as always—praising where praise was merited, pointing out errors that might have been avoided. By the time he had overseen the thankfully minor injuries among the latter, the evening meal was served and he was almost too tired to eat. 

Even so, he barely slept that night, tense and almost desperate for news as he was. He had hoped Elijah may have Frideth bespeak Zendreth with the reason for the ongoing, inexplicable absence of Sea'n and his bronze, but no word came. 

In the morning, after what little ragged sleep he could find, his first thought was to Zendreth, and Zendreth’s answer was the same: _Sammath has gone—his rider, too._

But still the dragons did not mourn.

S'ttan could stand it no longer. Elijah may not wish to see him—maybe Sea'n’s friend would be too visible a reminder of what Elijah had lost, if lost indeed Sea'n was—but he needed to know what had happened. How it was that Zendreth could no longer reach Sammath if he and Sea'n were still alive—and, if they were not, how they could have died unmourned. 

He had to know where Sea'n could possibly have gone that their dragons could not bespeak each other; he needed Elijah to tell him if— _when_ Sea'n would return. 

And Elijah—how was he, with his weyrmate simply _gone_?

_Zendreth, would you ask Frideth, please, if we may have Elijah’s permission to visit?_

There was a pause.

_Frideth’s rider says we are always welcome at Telgar. I am invited to land on her ledge._

Elijah was awaiting them, taut and lonely. S'ttan could almost mark the void at his side where Sea'n should stand. 

On the day he came to Telgar with congratulations on Frideth’s first, spectacular clutch, he knew at once that Sea'n and Elijah were mated in truth, at last—as he had known they must one day be. 

Even before Sea'n’s hug of welcome and his solemn admission, S'ttan had seen it. Sea'n was so serenely content—happier in a quiet way, he realized, than he'd been since the day they both Impressed. And Elijah…Elijah glowed—an internal joy that spilled over and delighted all who were near him. Without any overt display, the love between them was obvious. 

He had been happy for them. Their delight in each other was so clear he could not begrudge it, only wish briefly that he could be Elijah—and then let go of that wish into the friendship he would always have.

 _I am here,_ Zendreth told him then, a warm and loving reassurance for his rider.

_I know—and I am alright, really. I knew it could be only a matter of time. I just had not realized how visible it would be—that I would see so clearly how very much they love each other._

That love was even plainer to see now, in the very absence of one half of the bond. Their weyr had reflected their contentment, had become as mellow and welcoming a place as any he had visited. Now it seemed hollow, somehow, and cold in defiance of the sun that shone elsewhere. 

‘It is good to see you!’ Elijah said, though the warmth in his voice was matched by less than half a smile. His swift embrace lacked the familiar quality of Sea'n’s, of course, but S'ttan suspected that Elijah too must need the touch of a friend, however fleeting.

‘Where is he, Elijah? Where is Sea'n?’ he demanded, seeing no point in preamble even as he shrugged out of his flying jacket. ‘Zendreth tells me they are gone and yet he has not—no dragon anywhere has mourned. How can that be? Does Frideth speak with Sammath, wherever he is?’

But the anxiety in Elijah’s face gave him his answer to that, already.

‘I see. But—what has happened? I don’t understand how they can be gone and yet—’

‘They are not dead!’ Elijah said quickly. ‘Sammath has taken Sea'n back into time, to try to save Pern.’ 

‘Back…into _time_?’

‘Yes. It is not widely known—which is probably for the best—but a dragon can take you to a time that has already happened. You just need to give him or her a clear picture of when to go. _Visualize properly or be forever lost in time_ is not just a Weyrlingmaster’s threat to inattentive pupils.’

‘No, I—I know.’ 

Elijah looked up, startled. ‘You _know_?’

S'ttan had never before confessed the fact that he had once somehow done exactly what R'bant always warned them against. 

‘It was one of our first solo flights as weyrlings. I hadn’t given Zendreth enough detail to fly to, I think—only the shape of the Bowl from up in the air. Everything looked much as usual until we dropped down far enough to see individual dragons. There were bronze and gold together on the ledge before the Weyrwoman’s weyr but they weren’t Allibeth or Celenarth. They were dragons I had never even seen before, and Sea'n and Sammath weren’t where we left them, either. I have to admit—I panicked.’

‘I would have, too,’ Elijah assured him. 

‘It was probably only because Zendreth took their location out of my mind that we made it back at all. I was too scared to make sense—scared enough to wet my pants, in fact!’

He could tell it with an embarrassed smile now, but at the time he had been sure he would never see the Weyr or his best friend again. From that day to this, he had never again failed to give his dragon the very clearest image of where to go, even to their own weyr.

‘I still have no idea how it happened. Needless to say, I never told anyone—not even Sea'n, though we were the best of friends already. _Especially_ not Sea'n, if I’m honest. I was too worried he might insist on trying it for himself, and be truly lost in time. I never dared try it again myself.’

S'ttan could see how Elijah desperately wanted to follow Sea'n back in time to where… _when_ ever he had gone—and was just as certain that he would not go. Clearly, he had promised Sea'n he would not do so; that he would remain here, no matter what.  
Better than any rider alive, Elijah would understand the heavy weight of responsibility borne by himself and his highly fertile queen, now every egg laid and hatched was more valuable than ever before. But it was as much Elijah’s respect for his promise to Sea'n as their duty to Pern, that would keep them here to serve Pern’s greatest need. 

His face twisted with guilt, now. ‘Sea'n was the one who discovered Sammath could do it—but it was I who showed them the picture they took as their guide—’

‘Their guide to where—when? And _why_?’ S'ttan had to ask.

‘I don’t know either where or when,’ Elijah said, ‘not exactly. And as for why—you must have heard the healers complain of the knowledge they have lost over the turns?’ 

‘Because they’re as helpless as the rest of us with this Scourge robbing us of dragons we badly need.’ 

‘Exactly. So when Sammath found out how to fly through time, we thought—well, Sea'n truly believed and I hoped—it was somehow _meant_ to be. That we should go back to those turns when there might be healers who would know what ails our queens and how to cure it. At least, I thought it was so _we_ could go, but…’ 

‘But Sea'n would not risk you or Frideth,’ S'ttan finished, when Elijah could not.

‘He was— _is_ right, of course.’ Elijah drew a breath and said, with studied calm, ‘As matters stand, if no aid can be found there, Frideth alone has a chance of making good the Weyrs’ losses. So, of course, it is sound sense for her to stay safe at Telgar while Sea'n brings the blood samples to the healers of the past, in hopes of a remedy.’ 

There were so many things his words did not say, so many hard choices contained within them, now and for the future. S'ttan’s respect increased yet further, for this young man whom Sea'n loved.

And here, he realized, was the answer to the queens’ blood-letting, a few days ago. The whole of Igen Weyr had wondered but D'trel would say only that the healers required it. He simply had not specified _whose_ healers—those present or those past.

‘If it is at all possible, Sea'n will return with the remedy, if one exists. He knows the need and he has courage enough and to spare for the task,’ S'ttan said, offering what comfort he could, and knowing himself just as desperate as Elijah that wishing may make truth of hopeful words.

He would stay calm for Elijah’s sake, though his mind was almost screaming, _Why Sea'n? Why_ him _? Surely some other rider could have…?_

But they both knew Sea'n better than that. Once Sea'n was convinced a thing was right, he could only go forward, no matter the risk.

‘We don’t even know that Sammath will be in the right place and time when he comes out from _between_ ,’ Elijah said.

S'ttan could see just how much it hurt him to admit that. ‘They must have had a where and a ‘when’ to fly _to_ , surely?’

Elijah nodded listlessly. ‘Of course—and for some reason, I thought I had found one. It seemed obvious at the time, but right now it feels like a stupidly reckless _guess_!’ He almost spat the last word, full of disgust at himself.

‘I showed it to Sea'n and he was convinced that was where he had to go. It’s the oldest thing we know of, you see—a picture created long ago. A beautiful inlay, carefully preserved inside the lid of our Tally Box, it shows a chain of islands by moonlight, with a pattern of stars shining clear overhead. Tradition claims it was made by Ram Telgar but with so many turns between, who can know if it’s true?’

‘But, the stars are real, not simply the maker’s fancy?’ 

‘So Master Galdine says. They shine over islands that lie far to the south and east of Nerat. We just don’t know when they shone in that exact formation. But Sea'n was certain they showed the very place and time he and Sammath must fly to.’

‘And when Sea'n makes up his mind a thing must be done…’ S'ttan quirked a brow at Elijah who nodded rueful agreement. 

‘So, that’s where he is— _when_ he is—now?’

‘Yes,’ Elijah said. His tone was defiant. It dared S'ttan even to contemplate the alternative.

‘And do you know how long…how long it may be before he can return?’

‘No.’ 

So small a word, thought S'ttan, to contain so much mingled hope and despair. 

Elijah took a deep breath and sank down on the long padded bench, waving S'ttan to sit, too. 

‘We know you can go somewhen and stay there for a little while and come back to almost the same time that you left. But the farthest back we could go was toward the end of the last interval. Frideth and Sammath took the memory from Gerith—Y'tir, his rider, is the oldest in the Weyr. But sixty or seventy turns past are nothing to the hundreds that must have passed since Ram Telgar lived, when his star picture was crafted. And this must be far more than a quick flight there and back.’

S'ttan took the point. If Sea'n had taken samples of blood with him, who knew what the healers of that time might need to do with them to find a cure— _or_ how long it might take them… 

Elijah put his thought into word. ‘It seems unlikely to be a quick and easy task unless, perhaps, they have already treated the same malady in their own queens. We practiced—Sea'n more than me, of course, because of not risking Frideth—and we know the actual flight through _between_ takes a little longer the farther back you go. We have no way of knowing how long he may have to wait in that time, if a cure is even possible at all.’

‘How—’ S'ttan hated himself for the question, knowing its answer would be as fraught with danger as the rest of Sea'n’s journey, but he couldn’t _not_ ask, ‘—how will he know where to come back _to_?’

‘He has a drawing,’ Elijah said shortly and then, ‘I must go see Abelia!’ 

The sudden change of subject seemed to S'ttan both inconsequent and a clear indication of how small was Elijah’s faith in that mere _drawing._

‘I would rather she hear it from me than from some garbled trader’s tale. And Saben—how am I to tell Saben?’ he added, almost to himself, so that S'ttan barely caught the second name. But _Abelia_ he thought he may know.

‘Abelia? The apprentice healer who was once at Igen? Why would you—?’ Then he remembered the time before Sea'n became Weyrleader, when Abelia was a frequent visitor in Sea'n’s weyr. Obviously he had told Elijah about her. But why would she need to know anything of Sea'n after these many turns—unless she too was still—? But, that other name…

_Saben? Oh._

‘Saben is—?’ he asked, seeking confirmation only of what he guessed already.

‘Saben is Sea'n’s son, whom he loved— _loves_ very much. He was the reason Sea'n discovered Sammath could fly through time. Saben fell into terrible danger and Sammath knew it somehow. He snatched Sea'n back to be there the very moment a rescue was possible.’ 

Elijah managed a smile that was both sad and loving. ‘Saben is so much what Sea'n must have been at his age that it will hurt to see him again just yet. But I must go. He needs to know that his blood father is—is no longer here. That he is not dead and there is still hope for his return. But Saben must know the truth from me—that Sea'n is no longer here, and may—’

‘He never _told_ me!’ S'ttan interrupted, more than a little hurt that Sea'n had not mentioned a word of this son to him.

‘‘It’s not that long since we found out ourselves,’ said Elijah, ‘and I know Sea'n has always intended to tell you. He planned to surprise you with a visit, but _we_ haven’t managed to see Saben very often, either. What with having to take Frideth to High Reaches and then to Benden for clutching, and Sea'n being so completely determined to keep me safe there.’ 

Their eyes met in a swift, mutual understanding of how very _Sea'n_ that was.

‘And all the while he was still working to keep his wing here in good heart. Then there was all the planning and practicing for his journey—and somehow, it simply never happened. I am sorry, S'ttan. I know how much he wanted you to meet Saben.’ He shrugged at how complicated their life had become. 

‘I think, when we brought Frideth to Igen for her clutching as planned, he might have risked bringing Saben to meet you. Though perhaps even then, he would have felt safer flying with you to Long Gorge Hold. Abelia is the holder’s lady there.’

‘I will go in your stead, if you wish it.’ S'ttan surprised himself with the offer—he remembered all too clearly his own jealous hurt at the connection back then—but once made he found he meant it. ‘I would like to visit with Abelia, to know how the turns have used her, though I should regret the news I must bring. And it would not be truth if I said I did not very much wish to see Sea'n’s son.’

Elijah shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no. I owe it to Sea'n to tell Saben myself. To make sure that his son knows what a courageous man his father is and how much Sea'n loves him still, where— _when_ ever he is now. How much _I_ love him, too, and that I shall be here for him for as long as ever I can.’ Blinking rapidly, he looked down at fingernails chewed to the quick. 

‘I hated it, you know, when I first saw him and knew him for Sea'n’s son. I was even jealous for a few moments, until I realized how foolish it was—how foolish _I_ was—to believe Saben could be anything more than an addition to what we had— _have_. Now, I am more than ever glad that there is a small—’ He stopped and cleared his throat.

‘Sea'n has brought him to Telgar several times, for a treat, but also one that will allow him to grow used to being in the Weyr. Sammath says he will Impress, you see, when he is old enough. And he said—Saben said—if he is to Impress, then he wanted—’ his voice had been gaining strength, but now it faltered, ‘—then he _wants_ it to be a dragon from one of Frideth’s eggs. Frideth’s eggs _by Sammath_. So you see, Sea'n _has_ to come back!’ The last words were no more than a choked whisper.

As if only now remembering his duty to a guest, he sprang up to collect S'ttan’s riding gear that lay forgotten on the seat beside him. He took it to the vacant peg where Sea'n’s normally hung, slowly and meticulously tucking the tethered gauntlets into each sleeve, laying goggles and helmet as carefully atop.

Knowing Elijah needed the moment to himself, S'ttan was quite relieved when distraction arrived in a new voice from beyond the stair curtain.

‘May I come in?’ Not waiting for an answer, a tall man with pepper and salt showing in his beard pushed his way into the weyr, a tray carried before him. S'ttan had met the Weyrhealer before and would never have suspected him of performing drudge duty, bringing klah for a visitor. 

As they greeted each other however, Meretin’s eyes flicked keenly over to Elijah, and S'ttan understood that the healer was worried about him. Accepting the fragrant, steaming mug, S'ttan signaled his own concern. 

Elijah cleared his throat again, took a deep breath and turned back to them. ‘Thank you, Meretin—just what S'ttan needs, and what _I_ should have thought of already!’ he said almost brightly, taking a second mug from the tray. 

‘You are more than welcome to visit Abelia with me if you wish, S'ttan. I am not good at ill tidings.’ His face seemed to shut down then, and he stared into the depths of his klah.

S'ttan exchanged glances with Meretin. They both knew that anyone seeing Elijah would realize at first glance that his tidings could not be good, if he—or she—could never guess the venture that caused his sorrow. 

‘This would be a visit to Long Gorge Hold?’ the healer asked. ‘An excellent idea, and far better for two of you to go together than one fly there alone!’ 

S'ttan knew already that Elijah would never again be allowed to go _anywhere_ alone. Too much depended on his safety and Frideth’s. Ridiculous as it was to believe that any other dragon could do more than she to keep her rider safe, the order had doubtless gone forth. Frideth, after all, could not always be at hand to turn the knife sent, if not actually wielded, by a weyrwoman whose mind was twisted to rabid jealousy by the Scourge.

‘And, of course, bronze-rider S'ttan, you must know the Lady Holder Abelia from her term as healer at Igen,’ Meretin went on, seeing that Elijah was lost for conversation for now. ‘Have you met Saben, yet?’ S'ttan shook his head. 

‘Ah, you will find him a delightful child. Interested in everything, fair-minded and serious, but with the most wonderfully contagious giggle. When he and Elijah are together there is more laughter in the entire Weyr than ever there has been in all my time at Telgar!’ 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	24. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…if death could not find him, he need never see it take Sea'n from him…_

Saben ran as fast as short legs would go, relieved to reach the outskirts of the hold proper without adding bloody scrazes to already dirty knees. When he tripped, he had managed somehow to save himself with a flailed grab at the nearest bush. Of course, that meant that his hands were now greened with sap as well as grubby from helping Tomal mend fence.

They had been working in the outermost fields, Saben leaning back to hang his entire weight from the wire-wrapped stake in his hands. He leaned so far it was like lying on the air, his eyes staring upward at the bright puffs of cloud scudding across a sky washed clear and clean by overnight rain. 

Without warning then, two dragons—a great queen with a bronze beside her—broke from _between_ into the great swooping circle that would bring them in to land. 

Saben grinned so hard his face almost hurt, but he knew better than to release the tension he was straining to provide. He held fast until Tomal hammered home the very last staple and said, ‘There, lad, that’s a job well done!’ He ruffled Saben’s hair. ‘Be off right quick, now—bronze-rider Sea'n won’t wait all night to speak with a nipper like you!’

Saben knew that for a tease, for whom else would his blood-father visit at Long Gorge Hold if not him? 

His heart pumping fast with excitement and the effort of running, both, he crossed the last of the meadows between. When he burst out of the small copse that bordered the landing field, though, he stopped abruptly. 

The queen was indeed Frideth—but that bronze was not Sammath. Saben blinked. This one seemed naturally to be a lighter shade than Sammath, but neither bronze hide nor gold showed the bright sheen Saben had come to know for that of a healthy, contented dragon. 

Despite disappointment and confusion, he bowed a polite greeting to both before rushing on toward the hall, hoping to snatch a moment to clean his hands, at least, and make himself as presentable as he could. He was, after all, the eldest son of the hold and of a bronze-rider too.

But, there was no time even for that. The visitors had not gone inside to be welcomed with klah and pastries. They were still standing, Elijah and the rider who was not Sea'n, on the steps before the great door. Restray stood by, his face more serious than hospitable, and Mother was hugging Elijah. That was strange, for Saben had never seen them hug before—and his mother was…crying? 

They were waiting, he realized. Waiting for _him._

And perhaps the dragons told their riders that he was here, for they turned toward him as one. The other rider was tall, he saw. Taller than Sea'n or Elijah but neither as tall nor as wide as Restray. Tall and thin and dark, and his face was sad. 

Saben had a bad feeling inside him already, but when he looked right at Elijah he knew something was very wrong. He had never before seen someone who looked as if the light inside him had gone out. 

Panic hitched his voice high and shrill and belligerent in his chest. ‘Where is Sea'n? Where is my blood-father? Why have you come without him?’

Mother stepped forward and held out her arms, but it was to Elijah that Saben went. Elijah, who heedlessly dropped his riding gear to hold him close. Saben could feel the tremors that ran through Elijah’s body, but when at last he relaxed his tight grip and Saben could breathe freely once more, Elijah was not weeping as he’d thought he must be.

‘I am sorry,’ Elijah said, and Saben could hear the tears he could not see. ‘I would bring him to you if I could.’

Saben stared at him. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘He is not—’ He would not say it, for that might make it real.

Not _dead…_ He knew about death, now. There had been a sickness in the hold last cold season, and despite all Mother’s tending, two of the old uncles and one auntie had died, as well as Elora’s newest baby, too new even to have a name. He understood now that the dead did not come back.

He swiveled to look at his mother, but it was not her weeping that brought the fear, cold and heavy upon him. It was Elijah, who had neither light nor tears.

Still Saben shouted, ‘NO!’ and ran and ran—blindly, until he could run no further, ducking to hide himself as far and as deep as he could. Surely if death could not find him, he need never see it take Sea'n from him. The blood-father whom he had known for such a short a time, and loved so much though he didn’t see him very often. 

Sea'n was an important man—he had duties to attend at Telgar. He was a wing-leader whose his riders needed him there for training and for Threadfall, so he could not always be here even if—if…

The fury of his tears exhausted Saben as they fell, and sleep came to him as another darkness in which to hide.

~~~

_They worry about you at the hold, small one._ The voice woke him softly, warm and gentle within his mind.

‘Frideth?’ Saben was astounded, for the great queen had never spoken to him, only—only Sammath. But with sleep fast leaving him, he realized that, if this was not a female voice, neither was it either as deep or as rich as Sammath’s. The prickle of returning tears was eased a little by curiosity.

_Not Frideth but Zendreth. S'ttan is my rider._

‘I thank you, Zendreth, for speaking to me though I do not know you. I have not met you before at Telgar with—with Sea'n and the dragons of his wing.’ 

He spoke the words aloud, for though he tried to send them inside his head, as he did with Sammath, they would not come. Zendreth heard him anyway, it seemed, despite distance and Saben’s need to hide here in the dark.

_I fly with Igen, not Telgar—and S'ttan too leads a full wing of dragons._

‘With Igen? With Sea'n’s old Weyr?’

 _Indeed—though we think of it as_ our _Weyr, S'ttan and I!_ Saben felt the tickle across his mind that he had learned from Sammath was dragon laughter. 

‘I beg pardon—I did not mean…’ But Zendreth was still amused at him and Saben could not help the trace of a smile despite all sorrow. 

_Sammath’s rider has been a friend to S'ttan these many turns—a change of Weyr does not break a true friendship._

Saben nodded, wondering if Haren would stay his best friend for as many turns as that. And what of Sammath’s promise, that one day _he_ would Impress? That must surely break a friendship, if one was a rider in a Weyr, and the other not? _Oh, but—!_

A sob threatened to choke him though he swallowed it bravely.

_What is it, small one?_

‘Sea'n and Sammath… They are not—they cannot be—’

He still would not say it, would not make it true.

 _They are no longer here_ , said Zendreth.

‘Sammath—Sammath told me that I shall Impress one day. Then, my dragon and I will fly all across Pern until we find them. We shall find them and we shall bring them back to Elijah and Frideth, who are so unhappy now that they are gone!’ 

_Were that possible, S'ttan and I would have done it already,_ Zendreth’s voice was gentle in his mind. _But we do not know when they may be._

 _‘When_ they may be?’ Saben did not understand.

 _Sammath and his rider have flown back into time,_ Zendreth said, but Saben thought the dragon did not truly understand, either, for his tone was puzzled now.

‘Why?’

This, Zendreth did know for his reply was firm. _To save Pern._

‘That is a great thing to do,’ Saben said, pride - that his blood father would attempt such a task – overcoming both sorrow and a growing resentment that Sea'n would leave him so soon after he had found him.

 _Sammath and his rider are among the very bravest of Pern,_ Zendreth agreed. _It is a great secret, where they are gone, and you must tell no-one, ever. But Frideth’s rider says you are owed truth._

There was a pause.

 _‘Shall_ they come back, do you think?’ Saben’s question was no more than a whisper.

_If it is possible at all, Sammath will return to his weyrmate, his rider to hers. They are together._

Mother had explained that—that Elijah was as much Sea'n’s spouse as she was Restray’s—and the other way round, of course. Which explained why Elijah’s light was gone.

Saben’s stomach growled suddenly, and again he felt the rumble of draconic amusement.

‘I beg your pardon most truly, Zendreth! I am just so very hungry!’

_It grows late, small one, and the meal is well begun. But there will be food saved for you._

‘Bread without sweeting,’ Saben said dolefully. ‘It is the punishment for lateness.’ There was good reason few were ever late for hold meals without firm excuse.

_Frideth’s rider has piled a plate with roast herdbeast and tubers and greens, and set it by the hearth for you. He wishes you to hurry before it grows cold._

‘Oh!’ Saben jumped to his feet then and made his way quickly from his hiding place to the great well in the courtyard.

‘Thank you for speaking with me, Zendreth,’ he said, as he firmly attached the smaller of the two buckets there, letting the windlass spin free so the bucket joggled its swift way down to a hollow splash, far beneath the ground.

 _You are most welcome, small one,_ Zendreth said. _I do not doubt that we shall meet again._

‘I—hope—so.’ Saben’s voice stuttered under the strain of winding up the half-full bucket. Another huge effort, and he set it before him on the ground, sloshing a little as the muscles of his arms trembled in their release. 

Even without sweetsand, he would be clean enough in person at least, if not in clothing, to eat with Elijah and with Zendreth’s rider. Whisking off his shirt, he scooped water over his body as fast as he could and rubbed at his skin with an almost clean handkerchief, until he was pink and glowing. He paid special heed to face and hands and ears—Mother nearly always checked his ears. 

Then, trouser legs rolled high, he kicked off his shoes and stood right in the bucket, scrubbing feet and knees as best he could without falling over. Somehow this was not as easy as it might be, out here in the dark. 

But if he tried to sneak into the lighted bathing room, where the water would be warm and comforting, and the sweetsand softly foaming, someone or other would be sure to say ‘Saben!’ in a fondly scolding tone. Then they would push him down into a bath and seek out a change of clothes to make him presentable for the guests, and he just didn’t have _time_ for any of that. 

Elijah and S'ttan would probably leave as soon as the meal was over, and he must apologize and make amends for his discourtesy in running away so abruptly.

As he stood outside the door and listened, he could hear conversation—more subdued than usual perhaps, but with the usual underlying mealtime sounds of serving dishes being passed, and the chink of cutlery on plates. Dinner was underway still. 

One deep breath and he opened the door—not overly wide, but not so little that anyone might think him ashamed of his sorrow. Voices quieted as he entered, and he walked to the top table through a silence, his eyes for his mother only, to whom the formal apology must first be made. 

‘I beg your pardon for being tardy, Mother, Father,’ he said clearly, ‘and yours too, weyr-rider Elijah, bronze-rider S'ttan. And also for—’ he stumbled only a little with the words now, ‘—for leaving so impolitely.’ 

‘Accepted,’ Mother said and Father nodded. S'ttan forgave him too, in a nod and a half smile.

Saben turned to Elijah then and found him smiling just a little. It was a long way from the wide grin he knew from their visits together, but it held all Elijah’s understanding and concern.

‘Come sit by me,’ he said, beckoning Saben to the stool set in the space between himself and Mother. There were two pillows on it, fat with the feathers Meget had plucked from fowls long-eaten. Saben scrambled up and almost as if some signal had been given, conversation started up again among all the aunties and uncles in the room. He opened his eyes very wide at sight of the plate set before him, still hot and almost brimming over.

He began to tell Elijah and S'ttan of Zendreth’s kindness in speaking with him. It was hard work to eat and to talk at the same time, without committing the dreadful offence of doing so with his mouth full. Saben wasn’t sure how grown-ups managed it, but he was determined, and he succeeded pretty well, he thought.

The pain of missing Sea'n was still sharp. He did not think that it would ever go away. But he had found that to talk of Sammath and his blood-father with Zendreth eased the hurt inside him, just a little. 

He did not truly believe that any amount of talking could ease Elijah’s hurt, but Saben would do that for him if he could.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	25. Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥[Notabluemaia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Notabluemaia/pseuds/Notabluemaia)♥

_…always before, Frideth has made the choice I wanted as much as she…_

Elijah grew weary, both of the Weyr itself and of the well-intentioned but quite trivial chatter that had surrounded him since Sammath flew away into the past.

Riders and weyrfolk alike had taken upon themselves the task of filling the void in his life that was Sea'n’s absence. They came seeking advice, they brought their problems for Elijah to solve and their successes to share, they came with treats and songs and games and gossip. He was rarely allowed to be alone from the moment he woke to the time he fell into uneasy sleep, tucked tight against his queen. 

He was grateful for their desire to support him, but still he was restive.

Even if he let himself imagine Sea'n’s triumphant return, he could barely concentrate enough to do justice to the joyous rhythms of success that flowed into his mind. The strains of a lament flowed far more readily from his fingers to the strings of his gitar, to honor a valiant journey into the past whose outcome would never be known.

More than a sevenday had slowly passed since he went with S'ttan to Long Gorge West. Saben may even begin to believe himself forgotten by dragonfolk now his bloodfather was gone. Though Elijah could bring no positive tidings if he visited, he could at least reassure the child that he would always have his ‘not-father’. 

He would go see Saben, he thought, and seek Abelia’s permission to take him up on Frideth. They need fly no farther than the hold’s own borders, and perhaps not _between_ at all, but the exhilaration that came from riding the wind for sheer pleasure may lift their spirits, even now.

Anticipation was sweet in itself as Elijah buckled the riding straps onto his queen. Anticipation of the clean emptiness of sky—of sun and wind, of solitude and of freedom. 

They had not flown again in the interim, not even to their private meadow, to hunt. Elijah suspected they may be followed, and he would take no other rider to the place that belonged to him and Sea'n alone, where Frideth and Sammath had always hunted together. Where, on warm and drowsy afternoons, he and Sea'n had sometimes made love. 

Her hunting was restricted to the Weyr feeding grounds now, and she would eat only lightly. Perhaps, if they went there, she would—

_We go to hunt_ properly? 

He could not blame her for the slightly peevish tone. Such restriction chafed at both of them.

_As we return, if you can wait so long? I wish to see Saben first._

_Let us go see Sea'n’s son. I can wait._

Settling himself aboard, Elijah fastened up jacket and helmet, and carefully attached the safety straps. _Careful enough to satisfy even Sea'n_ , he thought, determinedly swallowing the lump in his throat. Then Frideth flung herself eagerly from her ledge and soared high above the Bowl. 

Scarcely had she reached free air than she was ringed about by every bronze dragon Telgar Weyr possessed. 

Despite the presence of riders, hers and theirs, the overtones of a mating flight were all too clear. Once again Elijah was encircled, besieged by eager bronze-riders. It needed only the panting of lust in his ears… 

Outraged, repulsed and completely furious, he clenched his fists tight around the leather straps. Breathing deeply, he forced himself to calm. 

_What is this?_ he demanded of his queen.

_Geneth asks where we are going. The Weyrleader does not wish us to fly alone._

He should have known, being supposed these days to avoid even the slightest risk, no longer simply the restriction on fighting Thread which did at least make _some_ sense. It was a wonder he wasn’t carried around the Weyr in a chair, in case he should trip on the stairs or stub a toe. He hated being made to feel so—so _fragile._

_And how shall he prevent it, if we go_ between _?_

_A bronze can always find a queen of his Weyr. Wherever we go, they will follow very soon._ Frideth sounded most apologetic.

_A bronze must also_ obey _a queen of his Weyr! Tell Geneth to inform K'vret that we neither want nor need such an escort, and order the bronzes to leave and not to follow. Ever!_

_You displease my rider and me!_ Elijah had not known her voice could ring so harshly cold. _Return to your weyrs and do not_ dare _to follow us!_

The circle of dragons reluctantly thinned… became a bare fringe of hovering bronze… was no longer recognizable as any shape at all… was entirely gone. 

A small group of riders still lingered, in truth, but distant enough that they caused him neither anger nor alarm. Three greens and a brown, and thus no threat whatsoever. Among them Elijah recognized Saben’s _favoritest green dragon_ —and that brown had to be K'rel’s. 

_The riders of Litanith, Jadeth, Tabrath and Feruth ask if they may accompany us. Litanith says her rider made a promise—he does not seek to intrude, only to keep you safe for Sea'n._

Elijah sighed and capitulated. He still did not want—and quite resented—a guardian contingent, even one drawn from Sea'n’s own wing, but he was disarmed by this more courteous caring. 

_Tell Litanith that Saben will like to see her,_ he said.

Since then, he and his tactful escort had returned once in each sevenday to visit with Saben—three of them now since Sea'n and Sammath flew away into the history of their kind. 

They did little more than ride the air together, Saben held safe in Elijah’s arms—soaring high on each warm current, dipping from its edge to plunge wildly down once more, losing sorrow for a while in such untrammeled pleasure. Elijah found more comfort in the company of Sea'n’s son than in that of any other, bar one. 

Though the riders and weyrfolk of Telgar put forth their best efforts to divert his mind, they never spoke to him of Sea'n unless Elijah mentioned him first, and then but briefly and in haste to turn the subject. The rising anxiety over the parlous need for Sea'n’s mission to succeed was aired in whispers only, behind Elijah’s back, as if they would protect him from the perception he and Sea'n had brought to light. 

Of Sea'n himself they kept their memories close and those, for the most part, they did not share. Only one rider would speak to him of Sea'n at any length, and his visits were limited by the demands of Threadfall on Telgar and on Igen, and by S'ttan’s own duties as wingleader there. 

A fine warm evening followed another hot afternoon. Telgar’s Fall was early that morning, and light at that, most of it landing among the frozen stones of the high waste country or above the permanent snowline. And after, S'ttan came a-visiting again—less in hope of tidings Elijah could not give, than seeking and giving solace by his presence alone.

S'ttan was different—he did not shy from the mere mention of Sea'n’s name, and he brought Elijah greater comfort in his mate’s absence than any number of other, well-meaning weyrfolk. Time and again, S'ttan would patiently listen as Elijah reiterated every last detail of Sea'n’s quest, fretting over the plans they made and the thought they had put into them. He told of their trials with timing, of the many preparations they made, and of the precautions he had put in place to try and keep Sea'n safe. 

And S'ttan would assure Elijah that he had indeed done everything he could—everything _he_ would have done—to keep Sea'n safe. To make it possible for him to come back to his own time. 

In exchange, Elijah listened, as eager to hear as S'ttan to tell, to tales of their weyrling days, of training together. He recounted anything and everything he remembered of Sea'n—excepting only his weyrmating with the Igen Weyrwoman.

Today, he unfolded a rich seam of memories from his and Sea'n’s earliest days together at the Weyr. Tales from before ever they Impressed, when they were only young candidates, fast friends already and falling haplessly into mischief as they awaited the hatching of Darith’s clutch. 

‘Did I tell you about the day Sea'n…?’ he would begin—or, ‘Then there was the time we…’ 

As he listened to the exploits of the young Seanachan and Sirttan, the emptiness inside Elijah eased a little in enjoyment of the last carefree days of childhood for the soon-to-be bronze-riders. The boys in Elijah’s mind, though, wore the faces of Saben and his friend Haren—fair head against dark as they planned their next innocent adventure. It was a warming thought in a cold world that if Sea'n were truly gone from him, there was at least this small copy of him for Elijah to love as the son he would never otherwise have. 

All too soon the duty weyrling’s assault on the mealtime bell shattered the post-Fall quiet, and it was clear S'ttan must share their supper before his return to Igen. Afterward, Elijah walked with him out to the landing field. He stood there alone, letting the quiet dark gather about him, until long after Zendreth blinked into _between._

He understood that S'ttan needed these visits every bit as much as he. That at Igen there was no longer anyone else to whom Sea'n had meant so much that his absence was a hurt. It was humbling have S'ttan set aside his long-concealed love and his own deepest fears for Sea'n’s safety, to provide such friendship for Sea'n’s mate. 

_Zendreth’s rider is a good man_. From Frideth it was praise indeed.

Elijah threaded a slow way back through shadow to his weyr, determined no rider should see him return alone and believe him in need of further company. He caught only glimpses of the scattered groups of riders, stretched out at ease on the warm, dry ground—with a mug of klah or some wine, perhaps, all enjoying air freshened in the coming of night. 

It was impossible not to hear snatches of their conversations as he passed—innocuous stuff for the most part. He was not listening with intent when he heard B'ratal’s voice burst forth, rough and dark from more wine than was wise.

‘Yet again, Telgar riders are not good enough for high-and-mighty Elijah!’ Even sober, B'ratal had never been able to moderate his voice to any level much below a shout.

_‘What_?’ Elijah heard the resistance in C'ter’s startled question. 

‘This _S'ttan,_ ’ B'ratal almost spat the name, clearly regretting he must use it at all, ‘who seems these days to be forever in the Weyr! He’s another one looking to leave Igen, just as Sea'n did. Keeping perfectly good Telgar bronzes from their rightful queens!’

The stupid man had completely the wrong idea of S'ttan and why he came to Telgar in Sea'n’s absence, but Elijah could scarcely reveal to the Weyr at large the truth that he alone knew.

_He loves Sea'n even as I do—though in silence and forever unfulfilled. He is Sea'n’s true friend and he needs the reminder sometimes of where Sea'n belongs now, to remember him here and convince himself that he may yet return. But he is my friend too, and only he can remember for me the Sea'n I never knew…_

‘The queen makes the choice, B'ratal—you know that. Frideth has always chosen Sammath above all others—and for that matter, it was _Sammath_ that brought them here, not Sea'n’s decision at all!’ Pr'len’s voice held nothing of its usual teasing flirt. 

His words were accurate and mild enough, but it seemed to Elijah that they carried a sharper edge to them. He was surprised to find the green-rider in such company at all. He had not thought Pr'len would wish to spend time with a rider like B'ratal.

‘And if they had not been here then Tennoth would have won her!’ There was ill-concealed fury in the explosive complaint. 

‘Perhaps—and perhaps not, for the choice would have been Frideth’s, still. Speed is not everything if the queen _chooses_ to be caught…’

Ah, now it was less surprising. That slyly pointed comment came from M'lende, whose brown Lesorth had recently flown Litanith. Their riders were often together.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ B'ratal’s voice was truculent now.

‘He meant only that there may have been another bronze by whom Frideth would prefer to be taken, had Sammath not come to Telgar. It happens,’ C'ter put in quickly. 

Though the tone was all conciliation, Elijah was sure he caught an underlying hint of smugness, for Alith and not Tennoth had won Malanath on _her_ last flight. Elijah was familiar with the result of every Telgar queen-flight that had occurred in this Pass, and he knew B'ratal’s bronze had never yet won a queen for whom he flew. He could take no comfort from that fact, however—there must be a first time for everything…

‘Well, Frideth must rise soon, she must be mated—and Elijah must take another weyrmate.’ B'ratal thumped the ground for emphasis.

As cloaked by darkness as the threat may be, still Elijah recoiled from the greedy anticipation clear in the words. He could scarcely bear the thought of being taken by such a rider in a single flight. The idea of a weyrmating revolted him.

‘I think that you are wrong in that.’ There was no force to Pr'len’s contradiction, only a deep understanding, edged with his own sadness. 

His sorrow at the loss of his wing-leader, Elijah thought—and more than that, of the rider he had idolized—and wanted—from the first. 

‘Elijah may be mated where Frideth chooses,’ Pr'len added, ‘but he will never take another weyrmate. He will look for no-one to replace Sea'n, for no-one could ever do that for him—and Sea'n’s friend must feel the same.’ 

The last words were ambiguous enough, but Elijah realized now that he may have underestimated Pr'len—for Pr'len almost certainly knew of S'ttan’s love for Sea'n. He suspected too that Pr'len’s own attachment to Sea'n may go far beyond green-rider instinct and the hero worship natural toward a strong leader.

‘Well, _someone_ else must mate him—’ and every one of his listeners knew that B'ratal meant himself, ‘—because Sea'n and Sammath obviously _aren’t_ coming back from wherever that wherry-brained notion took them, and Frideth _has_ to rise again, soon. Elijah has no say in _that_ , either!’ With that, the bronze-rider seized his empty winecup, got to his feet and stomped off. 

Elijah had intended to follow—at a safe distance—but then M'lende asked worriedly, ‘You don’t think Frideth would _really_ —?’ He cocked his head after the retreating figure.

It was the question to which Elijah too wanted an answer, but not one he could ever ask of Frideth, lest he influence her choice. He waited, hoping to hear a reply that might somehow ease his own anxiety.

_The queen chooses, always…_

Pr'len watched B'ratal disappear into the Bowl before responding. ‘I think she has far more sense than that. Litanith doesn’t much care for Tennoth, and she knows I don’t like B'ratal. She has made sure I’ve never had to accept him. Frideth is a great queen, and as often as Sea'n and Elijah mate she is with them. She will know that, after Sea'n, Elijah could never want even a single mating with a man like B'ratal. If she must choose, she will choose another.’ 

_But always before, Frideth has made the choice_ I _wanted as much as she…_

Lingering in the dark still, Elijah listened and tried to convince himself that Pr'len may be right. The green-rider must have been mated many times since Litanith first flew, and by many different men. He would surely know better than Elijah, who had only ever had to submit to a single rider in all of Frideth’s mating flights—and that to Sea'n, which didn’t count as submission at all.

_Next time, though, Sea'n may not_ —Elijah tried hard not to complete the thought, but it was impossible.

‘Really, it’s a pity in some ways that Kerel didn’t work out so well for B'ratal, you know,’ Pr'len said then. ‘Well, not as far as K'rel’s concerned, of course!’ Elijah's eye caught movement as Pr'len raised his winecup to the absent brown-rider.

‘Frideth would never ignore Elijah’s wishes,’ C'ter agreed with Pr'len’s opinion on that point, but then, ‘Kerel?’ he asked, his tone puzzled.

‘Did it never occur to you? B'ratal’s real reason for choosing Kerel on Search was that he looks like Elijah. Not as much as he did then, of course, but when he first came to the Weyr he was the pale echo of a young Elijah. B'ratal has always wanted Elijah, you see, from the moment he Impressed Frideth. He resents Sea'n and always will, because he flew in on Sammath that day to win both queen and rider, right out from under Tennoth’s nose—and even more because Elijah loves Sea'n, beyond any mating of their dragons.’ 

Whatever their disbelief in Pr'len’s assertion, heads nodded at the truth of the last.

‘So,’ Pr'len went on, ‘B'ratal had Tennoth ‘find’ Kerel on Search, and insisted he must stand before the golden egg of Frideth’s clutch, thinking him enough like Elijah to Impress the little queen. I think he really believed that when Gilanth rose to mate, she’d let Tennoth catch her because her rider would be grateful to him. If he couldn’t ever have Elijah, at least he’d have Kerel!’

‘You’re not serious!’ M'lende sounded as astonished as Elijah himself. 

Pr'len’s reply held a touch of pity for one who could not recognize the obvious. ‘I’ve had enough lustful men to know who wants whom, even outside of a mating flight,’ he said. ‘Trust me on this. B'ratal will always covet Elijah.’

Elijah shuddered and turned away, stumbling back toward his weyr. The first thought to struggle free from the miasma of revulsion clouding his mind was thankfulness—that K'rel had Impressed brown Feruth and was thus forever safe from bronze-rider lust. But, for himself… 

He had felt B'ratal’s eyes upon him from the very day that Sea'n left on his possibly hopeless quest. With every day that passed since then, his looking had become more and more proprietary. 

Tennoth was not only the last dragon to concede defeat in Frideth’s maiden flight—he had risen for her ever since. Few others among Telgar’s mature dragons had seriously contested Sammath’s right to his queen after that first claiming. Dragon and rider alike understood already that the huge bronze would allow none to take his mate from him, that Frideth herself would accept no other male. 

Most of the younger dragons still took up the challenge of flying against Sammath, in the full knowledge that they had not a hope of success. It had become something of a badge of honor for a junior rider to boast of just how long his bronze had managed to stay the course—to have tried and failed well, against Sammath. 

And of course, when the eggs from Frideth’s matings were promised elsewhere—to High Reaches and most recently to Benden—most of that Weyr’s own bronzes had come here to contest the flight. What their riders learned then was what the whole of Telgar—from K'vret to the youngest weyrling, from Candessa to the humblest drudge—knew already: that between Elijah and Sea'n, between Frideth and Sammath, was a weyrmating far beyond anything that could be ended by the rivalry of any other dragon for possession of the queen. 

The entire Weyr knew it, only Tennoth and B'ratal did not—and Frideth’s rising drew ever nearer, now. Sea'n and Sammath had still not returned, and B'ratal’s _looking_ had ripened into words at last. Elijah began to feel unclean. 

He hurried up the steps, wishing a repressive good night to the one or two riders that saw and would have detained him. He passed swiftly through the weyr that was empty without Sea'n no matter how many or how often other, well-intentioned folk sought to fill it for him. 

Frideth knew he was coming and what he needed, of course. Her head was angled down already for his widespread hug. He rubbed his face hard into the sueded softness of her skin, and clung to her for comfort, her caring a quiet croon within his mind.

There had been a time when she would observe, _You hurt!_

Now, there was no need for saying, for there was scarcely a moment when he did not.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	26. Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥[Notabluemaia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Notabluemaia/pseuds/Notabluemaia)♥ whose talent as artist as well as author may be seen in the glorious picture that adorns my text

_…Sammath is gone, Elijah—and so is Sea'n…_

Conireth lay peacefully dozing on her ledge. The view of the Bowl from her weyr was just different enough from Frideth’s to make Elijah feel off-balance—not that he didn’t feel that way already, given the reason he was here.

Up on the Rim, the wings were rising for a whole Weyr drill. The young riders from Frideth’s last clutch for Telgar were newly fledged into their allotted wings, and needed the practice. He wondered how well those entering Sea'n’s wing would prosper without Sea'n to guide them through their first terrifying encounters with Thread. 

No-one had liked to tell him—though Elijah knew from Frideth nonetheless—that the high standards Sea'n had maintained were slipping now. It was not that his riders _intended_ to let Sea'n down, only that without his presence they no longer seemed to have the will to rise to his level. They still fought Thread and they fought it well but, lacking Sea'n’s encouragement and approval, _well enough_ was now sufficient. Elijah could not find it in himself to blame them.

Leadership of the wing had reverted, in his and Sammath’s absence, to T'dray and Barleth. The fact that Sea'n had retained it in the first place, once T'dray was restored to full health, was telling in itself. He was a competent wingleader, of course, but he could offer nothing beyond mere _competence_. He would never have Sea'n’s capacity for inspiring trust and confidence and energy in his riders, and they seemed not to value his praise if it were given. 

Elijah was never sure and frankly didn’t care whether Barleth or his rider most believed that taking back Sea'n’s wing somehow gave them privilege with Sea'n’s weyrmate and Sammath’s queen. The question was actually irrelevant, since Frideth herself gave no sign of interest in the bronze, despite his attempts to win her approval. Quite the contrary, in fact—only once had he dared attempt a landing on her ledge. 

Frideth might not breathe fire, but she could instill cold fury into a rebuke like no other. Barely had he set claw to stone than her blast of icy wrath blew through his mind and sent him careering backwards off the ledge, rider and all. Instinct alone saved them a hard and ignominious landing.

Just as soon as Elijah identified T'dray’s sudden attentiveness for what it was, he quashed the bronze-rider’s pretensions definitively enough that the man would no longer risk anything beyond the politest of greetings—at a distance. Victory in a mating flight may be one thing. Seeking to force himself upon Elijah’s notice at any other time was quite another.

It was not that he found T'dray particularly repellent. B'ratal aside, there was not another Telgar rider who actively repelled him as a person. Most of them he respected, some he accepted as friends to be welcomed into their weyr when Sea'n was at his side. But that was the only interest he had in any other rider. There was not one who had ever physically attracted him. 

No matter how hard Elijah tried to ignore it however, and despite the dulling effect of Sammath’s absence, Frideth’s hide gained both color and sheen with every bath, with each careful oiling of her skin. Each passing day gave him less reason to believe Sea'n would return before she rose to mate. 

The bronze-riders of Telgar Weyr closely observed the change, of course. Almost every one of them—and his dragon—was paying some kind of court to the soon-to-be-mated rider and his queen. From some it was subtle, almost apologetic—a recognition that they too had a duty, should Sea'n not return for Frideth’s rising. These were mostly the riders whom Elijah and Sea'n had regarded as friends. From others it was… not.

It had gotten to the stage where Elijah refused all but the most cursory of contact with any bronze-rider other than S'ttan when he visited. As Frideth’s color drew steadily richer, he knew B'ratal was not the only one to look askance at the Igen rider. He would not deny himself the comfort S'ttan brought, however, merely to appease such unfounded suspicions.

The situation was unprecedented, and he knew it. Bronze dragons were the only ones to successfully fly queens. It was customary, therefore, for their riders to maintain cordial relations at least, against the day when a victorious bronze-rider would claim the weyrwoman—or weyr-rider—his dragon had won for him. Some weyrwomen, indeed, played favorites, relishing their control over so many bronze-riders. Jendria was such a one, but power of that kind had never interested Elijah. 

Before Frideth’s maiden flight he had braced himself against what he knew must happen, accepting it as the cost he must bear for the privilege of having Impressed his queen. But interest in the two of them had never then reached such a pitch that riders were vying for his attention as they were now, in one way or another, for this all-important flight. As desperate as Elijah was for Sea'n to return with the cure he was risking his and Sammath’s lives for, he also needed Sea'n to come back soon and save him from all this ridiculous posturing.

His eyes strayed irresistibly to the Tally Box—returned to its own shelf at last, its high sheen the result of Lenara’s most recent polishing.

‘Elijah, are you even listening?' 

Fingers clenched tight around what he held, he hastily dragged his attention back to Lenara. To the reason he was sitting in her weyr right now—at this table, flanked not-quite-casually by Riana, Jendria and Narenis.

_Reason…_ he mused. _Lenara is quite_ reasonable, _herself, today—if a bit irritated with me, and who shall blame her for that?_

A corner of his mind thought first that K'vret, A'sren and whichever rider Jendria had taken to her bed—was it D'stal still?—must have really enjoyed last night. That could be the only reason the three weyrwomen were all so very _reasonable_ this morning, so much like their normal selves. 

And second—a little unreasonably himself—that it was unfair they should still enjoy their mates when Sea'n could not be here for him. 

Narenis simply looked at him, compassion clear upon her wrinkled face. Sinitroth was grey about her muzzle now and had not clutched in turns. Her rider remained unaffected by whatever afflicted her peers. 

‘Count your blessings, Elijah!’ she told him once, and a while before Sea'n left. ‘You have found so much happiness with your weyrmate. Most riders never know the love you have for each other. I still mourn O'ren’s loss, these many turns after his death, but ours was not a great love, only the pairing of our dragons and, for us, a long and comfortable alliance of fond friends.’

Today’s was not quite a formal meeting, being held in Conireth’s weyr instead of the smaller council room. Neither Miktele nor Ciala was present—because their queens had yet to fly, Elijah assumed. 

Perhaps he should think himself fortunate that he must face only the four of them here. That it was not— _yet?_ —a full meeting of all Pern’s queen-riders. Had Lenara saved him that ordeal for the moment? Telgar’s senior weyrwomen first, reserving the full complement of queen-riders should he prove resistant to whatever they had to say here? 

Three pairs of exasperated eyes—and one that saw his pain and would not judge—were more than enough right now. He really did not need a further twenty and more, all envious of Elijah and his prolific queen. If indeed they could again be brought together in one place for such a cause, which he took leave to doubt. Maybe just the Weyrwoman of each Weyr might be managed? Following her Weyrleader’s overnight ‘cooperation’, of course, he thought bitterly.

Riana’s voice cut into his wonderings. 'Elijah, every rider of a female dragon, whether gold or green, learns early to accept that she or he may be mated to many riders, according to the dragon’s choice. You know that well enough.’ 

‘Do I? Did Sorka accept it? Did Torene? _Must_ I?’

‘But they were different,’ said Lenara. 'And a long time ago,’ she added, as if that should have some bearing here.

‘Their love was more important because they were female?’ Elijah demanded hotly. ‘Or because they were Weyrwomen? Lenara, the fact that Frideth is the only true-breeding queen on Pern makes her, right now, the single most important dragon there has _ever_ been. _The queen chooses, always_ —and Frideth has _chosen_. She wants her mate—her own mate, as I need mine. We know our duty well enough, but that is our _choice_.’

‘But Sammath is gone, Elijah—and so is Sea'n.’

‘No. They are not dead for the dragons have not mourned!’ He had better reason for hope than that, though he had told no-one, for it was not theirs to know. 

It was a small thing—such a little thing on which to pin his belief in a future that would again include Sea'n. Elijah clung to that hope now as he clung to its symbol, carrying it everywhere with him. The choral tribute he was composing against Sea'n’s triumphant return was a mere make-work set beside the promise he clutched so tightly in his hand here, hidden from view beneath the table. Holding it, he _knew_ Sea'n had arrived in that nebulous past.

Listless in the wake of his latest visit to Saben, and alone in his weyr as he so rarely was since Sea'n left, he had realized it was past time for him to return the Tally Box into Lenara’s keeping. It was comfort of a sort to open it and gaze upon the array of stars that shone above Ram Telgar’s pearlescent-fringed ocean. To imagine Sammath flying into the scene before him, gliding confidently over the whole archipelago, perhaps even landing on one of its islands to rest before taking up the task they came for.

More than once he had indeed envisaged giving Frideth the pattern of those stars and flying to that far off time in search of his mate. His given word to Sea'n kept him from doing it in fact—that, and the knowledge that without Frideth, Pern may be doomed indeed.

Only then had he wondered for the first time whether Sea'n might have flown back far enough to actually _meet_ any of the seventeen dragonriders whose names were inscribed with honor in that worn red bag. He took it out, shaking the contents carefully onto the seat beside him. 

To his astonishment, when the Tallies slipped out into a tumbled heap, there was a larger and more uneven shape still caught within—too irregular to readily slide. He drew it out with trembling fingers—this other, more secret bequest from Ram Telgar.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/seerslair/media/Talisman%20pale.jpg.html)  


The carving was small, barely bigger than the palm of his hand, where it rested so snugly now. Darker than the Tallies, its wood oiled, the color as close to bronze as might be, the little dragon crouched as if to spring at any moment into flight. It was not craftsman work, he thought, for he had seen far better made as toys—had owned one himself when young, passing it down to Rial and Jeden even before he left the family hold.

But this—even lacking the fine detail a true artisan might bring—somehow captured the very essence of a bronze dragon. It might so easily have been modeled on Sammath, right down…

His fingers traced the little figure’s jaw.

…right down to the distinctive scars left by Thread along the right side of Sammath’s head.

The selfsame scoring that fell close enough to his eye that day to give Elijah more than one nightmare—which Sea'n, of course, dispelled in the most satisfactory of ways.

Elijah had hugged the little dragon to his chest then, and the tears that sprang to his eyes were not those of despair. It _was_ Sammath—it had to be. 

Was this also of Ram Telgar’s making? No—Elijah answered his own question at once, for the man who could create so exquisitely in wood and shell could never have fashioned something as crude as this. So crude and yet so vivid—this showed far more of heart than skill. 

Sea'n _must_ have made it, for who else could put so much love into this small representation of one very special dragon?

He had made it and somehow contrived to have it sent down through the turns to comfort Elijah’s loneliness. It seemed impossible—and yet…

In truth, it mattered not how it came to be here, unknown to all except the one who tended the Box. A token for the delight only of the Weyrwomen who cherished it through so many turns—their secret reward for such care.

It was here and it was Sammath to the life. For Elijah it was proof beyond doubt that Sea'n had at least _arrived_ safely, somewhen in the past. 

His spirits lifted at the thought, though they had both known the journey home would be fraught with far more danger. A starmap, however diligently drawn, might still contain unintentional error enough to send Sea'n and Sammath turns out of their time—if they emerged from _between_ at all.

He chose to accept this small dragon as a message of hope from Sea'n, that he might one day return—and when Elijah brought the Tally Box back to Lenara, he did not include it. She had not missed it as yet—he would deal with his transgression when she did. Until then it lived beneath his shirt, against his skin—the tangible symbol of Sea'n’s love.

This was the talisman to which he clung—the hope that burned within him through each day, that flickered low through every cold and empty night, when he lay huddled in the sleeping furs piled between Frideth’s forelegs. He would not sleep in their bed again—not until Sea'n came back to him.

‘Hopefully not dead at all,’ said Riana, jolting him back to the purpose of the meeting, ‘but they cannot hear him, Elijah, where— _when_ ever he has gone. They would not mourn even if…’ Her words trailed into silence. 

Lenara quickly took up the thread. ‘We all hope as much as you that they shall—that they _can_ return from—from wherever they are now. But Frideth _will_ rise again and very soon, as you must know. Already she begins to glow like a queen on the verge of her mating flight. For this one time at least she must accept— _you_ , Elijah, must accept—another dragon, another rider.’

He stared down at the table now, white-faced and stubborn. 

Jendria reached to lay a cajoling hand on his. ‘You need not be limited to Telgar dragons and riders, Elijah. You may stipulate an open flight.’ She looked excited at the prospect, thought Elijah, heartsick. ‘Any bronze on Pern would be honored to mate with Frideth—’

‘Even if the majority of those riders would prefer the prestige of his dragon’s capture of Frideth without having to mate _me_ to get it!’ 

It was true that most bronzes would fly only queens, or those greens whose riders were female—the dragon’s choice reflecting his rider’s personal taste, as always. But tomorrow there would be many a rider who would resolutely set aside sexual preference for the glory of having _his_ dragon win such a remarkable queen. Frideth’s progeny may yet be Pern’s only hope for survival, and the bronze she chose to sire the numerous dragonets from this crucial flight must share her everlasting fame.

To most of these riders, Elijah himself—his hopes, his fears and aspirations—would prove little more than an unwelcome necessity along the way. Having known Sea'n’s love, Elijah doubted he could endure the exchange.

He pulled roughly from beneath Jendria’s touch. She had no idea what a true weyrmating might be. That dragon and rider pair was well-matched—equally flighty, equally capricious. Malanath had been mated by a different dragon every time she flew, Jendria by many another rider between times—and not Telgar riders only. She could not know what he had lost. He might have pitied her, had Sea'n been there beside him.

‘That is not true, Elijah!’ Lenara said firmly. ‘There are many bronze-riders who wish to mate you—who would gladly weyrmate with you, if that was what you wanted. You are beautiful, Elijah—and a very special person, too.’

_I don’t_ want _any of them…_

His familiar, empty railing against what had been inevitable from the day that he Impressed Frideth. 

But Sea'n had not only put off this day for him. Far more than that, Sea'n had shown him the pleasure such a mating could bring, had taught him—body, heart and mind—to relish the delight they found together. What Elijah feared most now was the _otherness_ of whichever rider took him—that he would not be Sea'n.

And that there might yet be pleasure for his body, in betrayal of his mind and heart.

He woke often in the night from dreams of Sea'n’s hands upon him, touching where only Sea'n had ever touched. Sea'n’s hands and his mouth, Sea'n’s body so smooth and warm and hard against and inside him. Elijah responded as always—how could he not? He panted keenly for breath then, each smallest part of him singing to the remembered caress of those hands as he lay, sticky and sated, in the old and shabby shirt that still had its one cuff missing. 

He wore it now for warmth through even the hottest night. It would remind him always that Sea'n _had_ returned to him once before—from Igen, despite his doubts and before they became weyrmates in truth. That he would…should… _might_ yet do so again.

The four weyrwomen watched him in silence now—but whatever was said here today would make no difference in the end. Yes, he might rail aloud against his hatred of feeling—of _being_ —trapped and helpless, instead of fighting it as he usually did, silent and alone in the dark of night, but it would change nothing. What did they really think he could _do_ about it, anyway? 

B'ratal had spoken truth in this, at least—Frideth’s rising was not a choice for either of th— 

Oh. 

_That_ was why the meeting, why each of them now wore such a worried—no, such a _frightened_ face. And why this was a meeting of Telgar’s weyrwomen only—lest a full Queens’ Meeting prove too much of a threat…

Or a goad, even?

Did they truly believe he might take Frideth _between_ and stay there, rather than submit to a rider who was not Sea'n? 

No. He would not do that. He had promised Sea'n. Even after this flight— _or perhaps many such flights_ , his treacherous mind suggested—their mates might yet return. He and Frideth must be here to welcome them, whenever that might be. But before then…

_Frideth, what shall we do if they do not return in time?_

_They will come back to us._

_They may not come in time… perhaps not for turns… or—or maybe never… But even so, Pern needs you to mate, as soon and as often as you can. You have to clutch again—over and again—or dragonkind may dwindle and fail, and the Weyrs lose the fight against Thread. Can you—_ will _you accept another bronze?_

Frideth snorted. _There is no bronze within Telgar—no bronze on Pern—to compare with Sammath._

_I know that. But could you?_

_I do not wish to. Would you accept his rider?_

_I do not wish to, but we_ must _, Frideth. Sea'n did not—_ does _not, for they live still, wherever they may be—he does not wish his and Sammath’s absence to bring about the slow destruction of Pern. He made me promise we shall go on without him, should worse come to the very worst._

He had believed the old fear gone forever, the fear of mating that haunted him silently all through the turns of Frideth’s maturing. Ever stronger and more fearsome it had lain constantly in wait, hovering almost out of sight though never truly out of his mind—until his own desire dissolved and defeated it beneath Sea'n’s strong hands and knowing caresses. 

But Sea'n had not, after all brought him freedom from a fate he could never truly escape, only a wonderful reprieve. It pursued him still, far worse, and not only because he knew now what—whom—he wanted. Elijah did not need the flirtatious words and covetous glances of Telgar’s bronze-riders—or B'ratal’s lust-filled stare—to remind him of his duty to the Weyr. 

This time, the fact confronted him at every turn, for it was talked of openly, if never quite before his face. So much more depended on this mating than the giving up of his body to another man. Every rider, every holder, every single person on their world, expected— _needed_ —this of him. 

And this time, it really would be a rape. He was no longer virgin but it would be rape nonetheless, in the service of Pern—for this time Sea'n could not be here to save him.

_The queen-rider will hold herself in readiness to receive the rider whose bronze wins her queen._

His _queen._

Just one of the many codes by which he must live. He had been prepared to do so the first time that Frideth rose to mate, no matter what. But he had been quite naïf, back then. Now, he knew what it was to love, far beyond the demands of a dragon mating, he was not sure he _could_ do this. He could only try, as Frideth would try. And when she accepted another bronze in this next mating flight, he would close off the part of him that ached for Sea'n, and submit as he must to ensure the survival of dragonkind on Pern.

Sea'n had believed to his bones that his flight into the past was not only possible, but necessary—inevitable, even—despite the danger to himself and Sammath. Dangerous but survivable, he’d said.

Elijah had not wholly believed it, though he believed in Sea'n, which must be the same thing in the end. The miniature Sammath, clasped so tightly and so clandestinely between his fingers here, was his proof that the Tally Box’s configuration of stars had indeed taken Sea'n to the place and time they depicted. It could give no surety, though, that Sea'n would also come safe home.

He had promised to return if it were at all possible, and Elijah would stake his all on Sea'n’s promises. What he could _not_ promise was when that return might be, if his way back to the present proved less dependable than his portal to the past.

However faithful Master Elzin’s depiction of the stars above their meadow on the eve of his journey, it could only bring Sammath forward to that same night. They could not know how many sevendays…months…turns—how many _matings_ —may have passed for Elijah since that time, nor whether Sammath’s instinct for his mate and queen would bring him safely forward from the time he had left to where Frideth waited for him. To where Elijah waited for Sea'n.

It was easier to believe by daylight. So much uncertainty made it hard to resist the doubt that grew to a choking cloud of darkness and despair in the blackest of the night, when the Weyr was cold and silent, and even the watch dragon drowsed at his post. Then, his belief that Sea'n and Sammath ever would return was strained beyond all bearing. 

His mate’s sacrifice for Pern was made already. Elijah was determined _he_ should not be found wanting in courage. There was small comparison, however, between a plunge through time itself—with small promise of success and even less of a safe return—and an unwelcome mating.

_Frideth, when…? How long until…?_

_Very soon, now. With the next sun, perhaps._ Dragons could not weep, but Elijah heard the weight of his own resolutely stifled tears carried on her voice.

_We have to do it—you know that?_

_Yes._

_An open flight?_

_What does it matter? Yes._

It mattered. Elijah would not allow his suppressed aversion to B'ratal to influence Frideth’s choice, if he could help it. If Tennoth was the bronze she chose, then Tennoth she should have. 

An open flight, however, would likely bring riders from every other Weyr on Pern. Most would be strangers to him, but that could not be allowed to signify. Their dragons must serve to widen his queen’s choice far beyond Telgar’s own bronzes. Perhaps there might even be one among them that Frideth would deem an acceptable successor to Sammath. Whatever else, their presence would make Tennoth’s conquest so much less than certain.

‘We will accept an open flight,’ he said aloud. ‘Frideth says—she says it may be as soon as tomorrow.’ 

Too aware that his voice had cracked apart completely on the final word, Elijah rose to his feet and escaped Lenara’s weyr before further question or comment could be posed.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	27. Flight's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥
> 
>  **NB** : Not a new chapter - I missed out the real chapter 23 earlier, and this is catch up! Chapter 28 will be posted shortly.

_…he may even feel he owes this clutch to Igen…_

Elijah’s welcome was as brittle as his body, thought S'ttan, for in a shockingly short time he had lost weight. He seemed all bones and eyes now. Their blue was somehow diminished, and brilliant only with the tears he would not shed—for that would be to mourn. 

Sea'n was not dead, Elijah insisted still—quietly, carefully. It was just that he was no longer here. No matter how many sevendays had passed since he left, he was not dead. And now Frideth was about to rise. For the sake of Pern, he and his queen would accept a mating—a mating and nothing more—with another dragon and his rider because Sammath and Sea'n were… _not here._

‘We did—we _do_ ,’ he quickly amended, ‘we do not know how long it may take Sea'n to find a healer who is either able or willing to devise a cure for what ails the queens, nor how long it may take to discover such a thing. How long it may be before Sea'n is free to return to us. And—and so, Frideth and I have agreed that tomorrow’s flight shall be open to—to any bronze from any Weyr who may wish to fly for her.’ His voice was empty of everything but quiet despair.

He was calm—too calm, S'ttan realized. Far better than any, he would know this mating was tacit acknowledgement of the fact that Sea'n and his bronze were unlikely ever to return. Neither rider nor dragon would fail his mate in this, were it possible at all. Their very absence said it was not.

‘I know,’ S'ttan said gently. ‘The announcement was made before I left.’

Igen’s caverns had been loud with the news that Frideth may rise on the morrow—and more than that, queen and rider had agreed to an open flight. A few of the younger bronze-riders sped away at once. They would spend a night wrapped in a cloak out on Telgar’s landing field with their dragons, if it meant they could have a part in this flight from its very beginning.

 _Frideth’s rider asks that you come to Telgar_ , Zendreth had told him suddenly.

_Tonight? Did Frideth say why?_

_She will fly soon and he wishes to speak with you. I am to land on her ledge._

Elijah stood silent for several moments now, and S'ttan waited. A disturbing conviction was growing in his mind: that Elijah would ask him to ensure somehow that his bronze won Frideth, so that he had only to submit to his mate’s friend and not to some unknown man from among Pern’s many bronze-riders.

But when Elijah turned to him, his face bleak and white, he asked S'ttan’s promise that Zendreth would not fly for his queen. 

‘If he caught her, mated her, and you…’ He did not need to speak the rest. ‘It would be so wrong. If— _when_ — Sea'n comes back to us, I would not have your friendship shadowed by—by the knowledge of that. You and I would both… S'ttan, I would not have you also lose your friend.’

S'ttan quickly looked at him. He had been so certain he guarded himself well, that Elijah could not know—but it seemed that he did.

‘I am sorry,’ he said.

Elijah smiled faintly. ‘Sea'n is easy to love. I think I loved him even before Frideth’s maiden flight. We had breakfast together that morning. He had no idea who I was, but even then I—’ He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. ‘Please, S'ttan, for the sake of your friendship with Sea'n and mine with you, you must promise me this.’

In any other flight, for any other queen, such a request would never have been made. Dragons mated where they would. While Sea'n was Weyrleader, Zendreth had flown alongside—in competition with—Sammath, each time Allibeth rose, as he did for every Igen queen and for a number of the greens as well. S'ttan had never wanted to replace Sea'n in Crista’s bed, for more reasons than one, but even then he knew that if his bronze won her queen, he would have Sea'n’s full support as the new Weyrleader. Their friendship would remain intact.

A mating between Zendreth and Frideth would be a very different matter, because the weyrmating of Sea'n with Elijah was so different in itself. It was even possible that Sea'n may actually prefer that his friend keep his weyrmate from a mating with some random rider from another Weyr entirely. But still, when Sea'n returned to find S'ttan had taken his place, the shadow Elijah feared must inevitably fall. The dissolution of their friendship may be slow but it would surely happen. 

For Elijah too, it seemed, any other mating would be preferable. Whatever the consequences for himself, Elijah was attempting to protect both mate and friend.

‘I cannot make that promise to you, Elijah,’ S'ttan said with real regret. ‘You know that. If I could do so, I would, but you know already that I cannot. It must be Zendreth’s choice alone, not mine—and almost every bronze on Pern will want to win Frideth, to be the one whose seed may help save Pern.’

‘Then, would you _ask_ it of him, on our behalf? Please, S'ttan—for Sea'n!’ Elijah was begging now, distress clear in his face. 

S'ttan nodded. _Will you fly for Frideth, my friend?_

_Frideth is unhappy. She wants no other bronze than Sammath._

_But she must rise and she must mate._

_No._

_She must, or dragonkind will fail and so will Pern!_

_Yes, she must and will—but I shall not fly for her. She needs Sammath, not Zendreth._

_As I need Sea'n and not Elijah…_

_Yes. Let others do as they may. Tell her rider I shall not fly for Frideth when she rises._

‘Zendreth will not fly tomorrow,’ S'ttan said aloud, and hurriedly reached a hand to Elijah’s elbow to steady him. 

As if held up only by his will to ask and thus bereft in Zendreth’s swift granting of his request, Elijah had swayed and may well have fallen but for that steadying touch. Nothing could more clearly have told S'ttan just how much it was taking from him to maintain his outward calm. 

Elijah took a deep breath now, let it slowly escape, and stood firm once more. ‘Thank you, S'ttan—and my gratitude to Zendreth, too,’ he said, his voice already almost composed. ‘Sea'n’s return should be a happy occasion for all of us, with no—no regret to carry forward into the future.’ 

He would still deeply regret that he must submit to another rider, S'ttan knew, but at least now, with Zendreth’s decision to abstain from the flight, there need be no complication of the betrayal of a friendship, from either side. In full agreement now, the two riders left Frideth’s weyr to answer the summons of the mealtime bell.

Afterward, S'ttan encouraged Elijah to return to his weyr, refusing the offer to accompany him to where Zendreth waited. The days may be drawing only slowly toward the cold of the turn, but tonight the sky was clear and bright with stars. A breeze had arisen from the north—light enough, but a sharp and suddenly chill herald of the season to come. 

Elijah had not enough flesh on his bones to keep out the cold, S'ttan thought—but more than that, he really did not need to see how many bronzes had gathered already on the landing field. Perhaps Frideth may have told him, as Zendreth informed his rider, but S'ttan hoped not.

There were many more people about the Weyr tonight than usual. S'ttan was never quite sure what called his attention to a tight knot of riders, withdrawn well into the shadows by the entrance to the caverns. A second glance revealed—to his surprise and complete dismay—that all three were Weyrleaders. K'vret’s presence must be required as host to his peers, of course, but for V'rise and D'trel to be here on this night of all nights…

 _Elijah, my friend, it seems your queen’s rising may yet have repercussions for every Weyr on Pern._

It was not a pleasant thought. 

This Scourge was not Elijah’s fault, any more than he could help having so fertile a dragon, yet for both these things his fellow queen-riders, in their less rational moments at least, already held him somehow to blame. If the settled leadership of Weyrs was now to be overturned by a desire for the glory of flying Frideth and possibly of saving Pern, S'ttan foresaw blame all too quickly becoming hatred, and a greater danger to Elijah than ever before.

At Telgar, he had many protectors, and these were not the loyal members of Sea'n’s own wing alone. He was safe here whether Sea'n could be with him or not. At High Reaches and at Benden, Sea'n had guarded his mate—S'ttan knew without ever having seen it—as closely as a queen her golden egg. 

Now, in Sea'n’s absence, when Elijah and Frideth came to Igen for her clutching, S'ttan knew it must be his task to keep Elijah safe, in memory of his friend. Crista’s recent amendment would be instantly reversed if, as it seemed, the Igen Weyrleader intended Menogeth to fly Frideth tomorrow. For what other reason could _D'trel_ , of all riders, have come to Telgar on this one night of nights? 

S'ttan was not at all surprised that the three should wish to keep this conversation from the Weyr at large—and from their Weyrwomen in particular. Indeed, they moved now to a small room near by—some kind of store, perhaps, he wasn’t certain. It was certainly not the sort of place in which a Weyrleader would normally entertain his peers. A narrow ribbon of light escaped more brightly at the edge of a door not quite closed. Glow baskets were being opened as S'ttan drew close and listened quite shamelessly.

‘What in the name of the Egg are you doing here, V'rise?’

S'ttan was very much afraid that he knew the answer to D'trel’s question even before the Fort Weyrleader could reply.

‘Quite likely the same thing you are,’ V'rise retorted, ‘so you have no call to sound quite so disapproving!’

‘I very much doubt that,’ said D'trel. _I_ come only to ensure that there will be no thought of change as to the destination of the clutch that will be laid to tomorrow’s mating. It is ours— _Igen’s_ —by decision of the Tallies. I honor Elijah’s right to request an open flight for his queen, in the absence of Sea'n and Sammath, but I see no reason that should make any difference to which Weyr shall receive the eggs Frideth will lay.’

S'ttan blew out a quiet breath. That, at least, was good to hear, and must do more than anything else to keep Elijah a little safer when he and Frideth came to Igen.

‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ V'rise sneered. ‘ _Yours_ is not the Weyr that has the longest still to wait, only for the chance at more dragons in a single clutch than we have seen at Fort in two or three entire _turns_!’

‘Someone had to wait till last,’ K'vret pointed out mildly, ‘and help is pledged to the Weyrs that must wait the longest. A rota was necessary, and the Tallies—’

‘Feck the Tallies!’ V'rise said crudely. ‘If Pogreth wins Frideth, that clutch is ours! Ours by right of mating, to have and to hatch—at Fort!’

‘You have a Weyrwoman of your own and a Weyr to lead, just as I have,’ D'trel snapped back. ‘Neither of us has any business taking part in this flight, and Menogeth and I have no intention of doing so. I wish only to know that the eggs long-promised to Igen will indeed come to us, no matter which bronze flies Frideth.’

‘I _shall_ have Frideth and her clutch in my Weyr!’

‘And Elijah?’

‘ _And_ Elijah,’ said V'rise. He was the only one of the three S'ttan could actually see, standing tall and straight in the long strip of glow-light at the door’s edge. A stain of color had risen in his face.

S'ttan was surprised. _V'rise_ wants _Elijah? I had not heard that Pogreth flew greens whose riders were male. The Fort Weyrwoman will not be pleased—perhaps even to a change of Leader!_

D'trel clearly had a similar thought. ‘I wonder what Birte will have to say to that—even _without_ the Scourge to fuel her temper! Tell me, V'rise, in whose weyr shall you live?’ he goaded. ‘Oh, how foolish of me—it must be Eirlith’s, of course! Otherwise, you’d not have a hope of remaining Weyrleader, now would you?’

‘I have a very good idea what Crista would say— _and_ do!—if Menogeth were to win the queen! And remember—Frideth seems to have an eye for Igen dragons!’ V'rise retorted angrily.

 _Unfair!_ was S'ttan’s immediate thought. _It was_ Sammath _who chose to fly for Frideth—Sea'n didn’t even_ know _Elijah when he was Weyrleader!_

It had not really struck S'ttan before, just how difficult it must have been for them—the aftermath of that first mating. At least within your own Weyr, when your bronze flew for a queen, you already knew her weyrwoman quite well—and generally speaking the green-riders made very sure you knew them. There could be no real surprise when either green or gold rose to mate, and Zendreth had never yet flown for a dragon whose rider S'ttan could not like, all mating imperative aside. 

But Sammath had suddenly hauled Sea'n off to Telgar to mate with a rider he barely even knew by sight, much less to speak to—a male rider, too, when Sea'n had only ever mated females. And it was known, too, that Elijah had been virgin for Frideth’s maiden flight. 

_I wondered then how it could take so long for them to know their love. With a beginning like that, the wonder is that they found it at all!_

And tomorrow, the chances were good that Elijah must submit to a rider he truly had never seen before. An open flight would indeed allow Frideth a far wider choice and was an excellent way to invigorate bloodlines. It would, however, be even harder for Elijah to come to terms with.

‘Menogeth will do no such thing!’ D'trel was saying hotly, now, his voice carrying easily to S'ttan and maybe beyond. ‘Crista and I have an understanding now that we never enjoyed in our first weyrmating. We are a mated pair and shall remain so, for as long as Allibeth and Menogeth agree.’

‘What about you, K'vret?’ V'rise demanded, turning to the Telgar Weyrleader who, like S'ttan unseen, had only watched and listened up till now. ‘You’re not going to tell me Geneth won’t be taking part in this flight!’

‘He will not. Geneth is weyrmated to Conireth, and I to Lenara. That will not change, whatever glory may accrue to this flight. You would do well to look to your own weyrmating, V'rise. I doubt Eirlith will be any happier than Birte should you bring Frideth to Fort, with Pogreth having mated her. For a weyrmated bronze to fly the occasional green is one thing. For him to turn from his queen to another is quite another.’ 

V'rise made to interrupt but D'trel silenced him with a peremptorily raised hand. 

‘Do not bother to tell me that Sea'n did exactly that—it was agreed long ago that Sammath’s imperative alone brought them to Telgar. But Sea'n was prepared to give up all claim to leadership, only for Sammath to remain with Frideth. _You_ want both. You want the Weyr, the glory and the rider, too. Your own ambition and lust are influencing Pogreth to fly for Frideth, which is a different matter entirely. _I_ would never do such a thing to my Weyrwoman!’

‘Nor I to mine!’ D'trel swore it, hand to heart. ‘You don’t see R'faen here, or B'net or R'nal—do you?’

 _A young rider still entranced by the Weyrwoman who has granted him so much, and the other two equal in long-settled weyrmatings?_ S'ttan shook his head. _Their dragons will not bring them, and that is all to Pern’s good._

‘They may fly in tomorrow,’ V'rise insisted.

‘They will not come at all,’ said K'vret. ‘And you take a great deal for granted, V'rise. By the look of our caverns and the landing field tonight, it seems there may be few bronzes on Pern who will _not_ fly for Frideth tomorrow. Pogreth may triumph—but then again, he might well not.’

‘If _any_ Fort dragon wins Frideth, then the clutch comes to us!’

 _You understand nothing of Elijah if you believe that, V'rise! He will refuse to bring his queen to any other Weyr than Igen for her laying_ , thought S'ttan, just as K'vret said, ‘I think you will find that Elijah is one who will hold to a promise given. And neither you nor anyone—not an entire Weyr of dragons—will break his word in this.’

_He will do what is right—what he and Sea'n agreed to—no matter what it may cost him. And, knowing Elijah as I do now, I think he may even feel he owes this clutch to Igen over and above any decision of the Tallies, in reparation for having once taken its Weyrleader._

It was doubly cruel that it should be to Sea'n’s old Weyr this clutch was promised. S'ttan vowed now that he would do whatever it may take to support Elijah when he brought his queen to Igen. 

That Elijah would not lack a friend there, if he must forever lack his weyrmate.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	28. Consolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥
> 
>  **A/N** : I discovered, on coming here to post, that I had somehow managed to get across with chaptering, AO3 insisting that prologue = chapter 1 as it does. 
> 
> [Chapter 23 - Confirmation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3193538/chapters/11218219) was lost to the confusion but has now been restored. 
> 
> *embarrassed*

_… sorrow for one who was far more to him than merely a friend …_

Zendreth brought him quickly to their weyr, but it was a while before S'ttan dismounted, a dreary, uncontrolled slither down onto the ledge. He looked dully at the stone beneath his feet, worn into deep gouges where turn after turn of dragon claws had grasped for a landing. He shuffled wearily inward, where the floor was leveled enough for comfort, smoothed over by turn upon turn of sleeping dragon bellies.

Behind him the Weyr was abuzz still, in anticipation of Frideth’s flight. In front was only the curtain that kept the drafts from his empty weyr—an emptiness to echo that in Frideth’s, now. More than two turns had passed since this had been a place to share, if only for friendship’s sake. 

For Sea'n there had been no slow but steady progress slowly downward through the levels, from the small, cramped weyrs of the highest tiers—no decent couch for a dragon the size of a bronze, and few enough with a ledge for sunning. He had barely descended from such junior quarters to a suitable weyr of his own than Sammath had flown Allibeth and Sea’n moved to share the queen’s weyr with Crista. 

Hardly any of those high and less comfortable weyrs were occupied now, and then solely by choice of a pleasant aspect. So many vacant tells of the need for Sea'n’s dangerous venture into the past. 

S'ttan had moved down several times. As wing-leader, his current weyr was spacious enough to serve a queen—had Igen now possessed more than four—and only one level above theirs…above Crista’s. Given the way sound would echo through the Weyr—at night, when all else was quiet—such proximity was not necessarily a good thing. Not good at all, when Sea'n was Weyrleader and Sammath had shared Allibeth’s weyr.

Riders and weyrfolk quickly became adept at _not_ hearing, but it was impossible at times. S'ttan had too often lain awake in his furs, unwilling witness to the unmistakable echoes of passion. Sea'n was not himself a voluble lover, but Crista was always loud in her appreciation of his attentions. 

It was torture of an unwittingly cruel kind, when he had ached to know those same caresses at Sea'n’s hands and yet could never admit it. 

In those days, when Sea'n had the time—and the need—to leave behind for a while the business of being Weyrleader, he would come to S'ttan’s weyr. Only to rest, to exchange stories of this and that from his crowded day, or to play a game or two of dice or Forts and Dragons over a cup of good wine. Never anything more, but S'ttan had made it enough. Even in her absence he could never feel at ease in Crista’s weyr, so Sea'n would always come here.

Two turns and more since he had lost all of that, S'ttan thought as he removed Zendreth’s harness—slowly, yet still with the ease of long practice. Since he had lost the closeness of the best friend he would ever have. 

So much had happened since then—a weyrmate in truth, the ongoing urgency of Thread, Sea'n’s need to protect Elijah from possible danger when Frideth must go to other Weyrs for her clutching. Even S'ttan’s own diffidence in visiting lest he somehow come between them, not that he ever could in truth. All these things had served, more than distance, to keep them apart. But whenever S'ttan had visited, he was welcomed by both of them in the warmth of true friendship. And he had come to like and admire Elijah for himself, no matter to whom he was mated. 

He had actually been looking forward to Frideth coming to Igen for her clutching. Zendreth would have flown for her in that mating, he knew. It would have been one more thing from their past—pitting his bronze against Sea'n’s, without even the remotest possibility of winning. It had been that way from the first time their weyrling dragons had ever flown. Such competition was a part of them, a part of their friendship.

But now, it seemed, he had lost Sea'n all over again. In his agreement to an open flight, if not in words, even Elijah had admitted how unlikely it was—how impossible—that Sea'n would ever return.

Tugging off helmet and goggles, he walked slowly toward the row of pegs on which he kept his riding gear. His fingers were working stiff buckles over wher-hide when he realized he was not alone. The glowbaskets were still closed, the weyr filled with shadows he had no intention of banishing, for they suited his mood too well. 

But when he turned, there—waiting quietly in the very centre of his weyr—stood a slim figure he knew.

‘Keia? Did you want something?’ He really had no wish to speak with anyone tonight.

Keia was one of the unlucky candidates who reached their twentieth turn without Impressing. These unfortunates then had the choice of returning to their own holds, if that was their wish, or of making for themselves a new life in the Weyr, using whatever skills they possessed. Most chose the latter course, for life in a Weyr was more interesting by far than in most holds—and easier too, for the most part, especially for women, who were not here forced to accept the role of brood mare until worn well beyond their turns.

S'ttan had been so certain Keia would Impress—the hatchling queen, too, he believed. For Zendreth was not normally a Search dragon, and yet he had been the one to find her. Even then she was almost too old to be a candidate, but S'ttan had thought that a good thing. So deep into a Pass, a mature queen-rider could only be an asset. They discovered her in Riversedge Hold, about to be wed, however reluctantly, to a thin, sharp-faced man twice her age. He had apparently lost a spouse in childbed already—two of them, in fact. 

So, S'ttan had brought her to stand before Allibeth’s first clutch to Menogeth, after D’trel reclaimed both the queen and the leadership of Igen, following the death of S'rone. He might even have been right about her ability to Impress a queen. But the golden egg, laid to so much rejoicing, had failed to hatch—like so many others, both before and since, if never again the egg of a much-needed queen. 

Keia had been left to stand, then and at the remaining few, scant hatchings of her allotted time. He had always felt responsible for raising a false hope in her, though she assured him more than once that she much preferred weyrlife to the prospective husband abandoned with not a second glance.

‘Keia?’

‘S'ttan. I—I came to see if you were alright.’

‘Why would I not be?’

‘Because Sea'n is gone,’ she said without hesitation. 

‘And so?’ He managed to keep his voice steady. His fingers paused at the fastenings of his jacket, and if they trembled there, the shadowing dusk hid it well enough.

She moved forward then, her hands pushing his away to finish the task for him. ‘And so, I came to see if you were alright.’

‘I am well enough,’ he said, wondering how she could think that an answer, but unwilling to ask further lest the choke in his throat should betray him. He swallowed to strengthen his voice and said, ‘I thank you for your concern. Now, if you will—’ He stepped back and her fingers fell away.

‘I thought perhaps you may need someone,’ she said then. ‘It is hard to lose such a friend.’

He could only nod in answer, knowing if he tried to speak at all she could not fail to hear a sorrow for one who was far more to him than merely a friend. He thought to wave a hand to indicate that she should leave, but her arms came up around him and she pulled him to her.

‘S'ttan, you need to weep for him,’ she said. 

Weyrfolk and riders alike must realize that Elijah’s acceptance of an open flight meant that even he doubted Sea'n would ever return, but S'ttan had no idea how Keia could possibly know what Sea'n had meant to him. She had not even been at Igen when Sea'n was Weyrleader. His carefully kept pretense crumbled at the understanding in her voice, however, and he gave way at last to his choking sorrow.

She held and rocked him through the worst of it, and when at last he gave an exhausted sigh, she guided him to the bed, pushing him to sit so she could tug off his boots. When he shrugged out of his jacket and lay back, she stood irresolute until he held out his hand. 

With her arms around him, he drifted into a quieter sleep than he had known since first Zendreth had told him that Sammath and Sea'n were no longer here. 

~~~

It was scarcely much past dawn, but S'ttan was awake already, propped on one elbow, listening. Voices carried as freely in the quiet of early morning as in the dark of night, and today there were many riders making ready for flight—the younger ones giddy and optimistic, their elders brusquely focused. 

He thought of Elijah waking to this day, and saw him again as they had hugged at parting: pale and tired but resolved that he—that he and Frideth—would yield to Pern’s desperate, ongoing need for viable eggs, for new dragons to defend their world. It would break something within him, S'ttan thought, but still Elijah would give up himself and his queen for the sake of Pern, just as Sea'n had given his life and Sammath’s. 

S'ttan knew then that if he could give Sea'n back to Elijah he would do it in an instant.

He shook his head gently, and Keia stirred at his side. At some point while he slept she had undressed, slipping naked beneath the furs that lay between them now, though S'ttan still wore both shirt and trousers.

She opened her eyes and for a fleeting moment there was a tension in her that verged on sadness. Her gaze flicked rapidly to the stone couch where Zendreth lay, still sleeping, and back to S'ttan. She relaxed then, and smiled softly. ‘Good morning,’ she said.

Perhaps he should feel embarrassed now—that she knew his secret as no-one else here did and had held him as he wept this second, irretrievable loss of the one he loved—but somehow he did not. 'Thank you for being here last night. I didn’t know how much I really did not need to be alone.’

She nodded, and smiled again, reaching a hand up to his face. It was a careful caress, and might have passed as no more than the touch of a friend, had she not been naked in his bed.

‘Let me love you,’ she said, then—an unknowing echo of the plea he had so much wanted to make of Sea'n. 

He shook his head. ‘You should love someone who can return your love,’ he told her honestly, ‘as I cannot.’

‘You need someone of your own, S'ttan, and if you can never have the one you love, is not someone who loves you, better than no-one at all?’

‘You are far better than no-one, and far more than I deserve,’ he said. ‘It is a wonderful offer but I cannot—’

‘Can you not?’ she asked playfully. She walked her fingers downward, sliding them beneath his shirt, nails scraping almost casually over a nipple in passing as she sought to contradict him. ‘I think perhaps you can!’ No need for further thought—the evidence was solid enough beneath her hand.

‘Yes, but—’

‘No but! I have loved you, S'ttan, from the day you found and brought me here, and I want you. If you cannot love me, you want—you need—what I can give. It would be a kindness to take it of me,’ she added slyly, the trail of her fingers making it plain that he would receive far more than a kindness, were he to accept. 

He groaned as she firmly stroked him. It was a while since last Zendreth had risen to win his dragon. Duath was a green, her rider male, the mating fast and intense as always—but soon over, soon forgotten. And not at all what S'ttan wanted. Not Sea'n, no matter how hard he had tried to pretend, as always—and he wanted far more of Sea'n than that. 

There had been no-one since, and right now his body needed Keia’s. She was even less the one he truly wanted than F'del had been, but he was rising to her touch without either his long-time fantasy of loving Sea'n, or his dragon’s lust, to drive his desire—and that had not happened to him in a very long time. 

Perhaps she was right. He was fond of her and had always felt in some way responsible for her. She clearly understood him far better than anyone. And she wanted this, wanted him.

‘I cannot give all that you may want,’ he said, almost wishing he could, ‘but I will try to make you happy. And if what I can give is enough for you—’

‘It is enough,’ said Keia, and kissed him.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	29. Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…if, at the last, the queen should refuse her captor…_

Here were so many echoes of the very first time Frideth rose to mate but this, Meretin feared, this could never end so well.

From the first hints of clear pink in the dawn of one of those rare, Pern-wide Threadfree days, dragons in numbers uncounted had brought their riders to Telgar, all eager simply to be a part of this unique flight. Almost every bronze (and more than a handful or two of optimistic browns) from every Weyr on Pern had jostled for space on the landing field. 

The mood was already more than tense, the usual undertone of semi-friendly rivalry altogether absent now. Each and every dragon was caught within the mating lust—seeing naught, caring for naught but the one who glowed so gold, here and then gone, far above them in an instant. 

They launched upward en masse, spread wings darkening the sky above Telgar. An ominous, covetous cloud intent upon the pursuit of this remarkable queen—on her capture and breeding alone.

In his role as healer, Meretin stood by as the great host of riders crowded past him, herding Elijah into his own—into his and Sea'n’s—weyr. He should be well used, by now, to the sight of dragon-lust etched upon the faces of men, but here were many more than he had seen in a single place before this—than anyone, ever, had seen at the rising of a queen. Too many, surely, to fit easily even in so spacious a weyr, with its wide and welcoming ledge for her and her bronze. Given Frideth’s swift and resolute rising, however, it was unlikely to remain overcrowded for long.

There was, too, a keener edge to that lust today than he had seen before, with so much prestige to be gained from the capture of this queen. 

_The queen chooses, always…_

The victors must be a special dragon and rider indeed to be chosen—to be accepted at all—by Frideth and Elijah, whose weyrmating with Sammath and Sea'n was matter already for song and story.

The bronze that conquered today may become legend indeed. This mating, this pairing of dragons, might well be the one hope for the future for Pern itself. They and their riders would then have fame until the very last harper ceased to sing.

Fame and prestige—and such proof of his bronze’s virility—would be reasons enough for most riders. There would always be one or two, however, for whom thoughts of absolute dominion may be the overmastering lure. 

A cunning and ambitious man may well reckon that, could he and his bronze but gain—and keep—the favor of both queen and rider, they would then form one half of the most powerful pairing Pern had ever known. That being so, the mere threat of withdrawal, henceforth, of Frideth’s services as egg-donor from any one of the Weyrs would grant that rider complete control over every Weyr. He would become, de facto, the Leader of Pern. No-one, anywhere, could gainsay whatever was demanded of them, whether from necessity or whim.   
. 

Such a thing would never occur to Sea'n, of course, much less to Elijah. But Meretin was only too aware that, even among dragonriders, there would always be men of scant altruism and almost boundless ambition.

He knew also that a rider who entertained any such notion would encounter rather more resistance than he bargained for, should his bronze even succeed in winning Frideth in the first place, which Meretin took leave to doubt. 

Anyone who believed Elijah to be weak and easily influenced—in any way whatever—was in for a severe shock. He would permit neither himself nor his queen to be employed against Pern’s best interests; and an Elijah stubborn in that cause could depend on support far wider than that of Telgar Weyr alone. 

In his worry for Elijah, Meretin was probably seeking to hatch eggs that may never be laid—almost literally. Before either the laying of tangible eggs or the setting loose of ambition, must come the mating—and whether that would actually take place was yet to be seen.

Frideth had risen from the feeding ground in a flash of frenzied gold. It would take a remarkably fleet and resourceful dragon to catch her, for today she truly would not wish to be caught. Elijah had enforced, as always, the blooding only of her kills, to fuel her usual, exceptional flight. From the first it was fast and high, and must be hard—and fully as long as any bronze remained with heart and stamina for an almost endless chase. 

No playful caprice would attend this flight, with Frideth’s resistance in full earnest. And at its end, at the very last—would the mating instinct be powerful enough to overcome her bond with Sammath?

Meretin’s mind shied in dismay from the thought of what may happen if no bronze could stay the course she set—or if, at the last, the queen should refuse her captor—but he shuddered.

Even if Frideth submitted, he was almost certain that Elijah would fight being taken. Yes, he had agreed to accept another rider, and his word would not be lightly broken. But Meretin suspected his body memory of Sea'n’s love-making may simply override any such conscious thought. They had been a truly mated pair and Elijah may not be able to help himself. 

Quite what that would do to Frideth’s mating, Meretin did not know. No-one did.

It was a situation quite without precedent. Sorka and Faranth had mated only with Sean and Carenath, Torene with Mihall, their dragons together. Elijah and Sea'n made another such pair, he thought. 

No matter that Elijah was no weyrwoman, their love was fully as deep and as lasting, their dragons’ attachment as sure—their weyrmating sundered solely in service to Sea'n’s desperate attempt to save Pern. And today, Elijah would give up both himself and his queen, setting aside both his desires and hers, to that same cause. 

If courage and determination could win the day, then Pern was safe already. If not…

He would wait out this flight here on the stairs, as he had that first time. Then, his healing was thankfully unneeded and Elijah had found much joy in his mating. Meretin could foresee no such satisfactory outcome this time around. 

This time, he feared there may be a real need for the salves he was keeping close at hand. So many sevendays had passed since Sea'n had left their time that even he may have needed to take his mate with more care than would be usual between them. A dragon-fueled coupling, both fast and violent against desperate resistance, must cause damage—and Elijah suffered enough in this already, thought Meretin.

The stone stair was obdurately unyielding where he sat, and all too quick to leach the warmth from his rapidly stiffening limbs, despite his thickest cloak. A bone-deep ache crept upward and outward, its discomfort serving only to increase the disquiet of his mind.

As he sat, he became increasingly aware of a curious sound filtering through the close-drawn curtain. Above the fidgeting of many bodies packed too close, he heard it: a quietly ominous thrum. No clear sound of voice, only—he realized at last—the hoarse and greedy, panted breaths of a hundred men and more, rousing toward the highest pitch of desire. 

Presently was added the counterpoint of thwarted groans from those who knew their dragons’ failure already and were yet loath to withdraw their challenge, being dizzied and aroused still almost beyond bearing.

Almost sooner than he had expected, these riders began to leave the weyr in an unsteady stream, defeated and regret-filled. Older men first, for the most part; those whose dragons had slowed with their riders’ age. Contenders in hope alone, they were simply no longer able for the pace set by a young and agile—and very determined—queen. 

In a while came younger riders—some scarcely more than boys themselves—of dragons whose eagerness had too soon outpaced their strength. 

And then, so many more they began to blur together before Meretin’s eyes, these riders emerging each on another's heels. Men in their prime now, with experience as well as endurance to their names. Riders whose bronzes were well used to the extended pursuit of a captious queen—with at least one Weyrleader among them that he had seen.

All were equally outflown by this dragon queen whose need for her weyrmate, it seemed, may yet defeat the mating instinct, too. 

For all these baffled, unfulfilled and disappointed men, Meretin and Candessa between them had a remedy prepared: a huge pot filled with the strongest wine the Weyr possessed, infused with certain herbs renowned for their powerfully soporific properties. 

Practically speaking, there simply were not enough green-riders to go around, even had they all wished to offer aid of the most basic kind to intensely frustrated strangers; instead, the floor of the innermost Cavern must be half-hidden already beneath row upon row of heavily sleeping bodies.

He was especially relieved to see B'ratal, for all his boastful words, among those riders who were early vanquished. Meretin had divined Elijah’s dislike of the man long before Frideth’s first rising—indeed, almost before Elijah recognized it in himself. Even a healer could recognize a man who would make a very poor leader of a wing—or of a Weyr, should it ever have come to that. Tennoth may make a strong enough showing among Telgar’s own bronzes, but B'ratal had not reckoned that other Weyrs may breed dragons whose challenge was stronger still.

He was yet more relieved and truly thankful when V'rise blundered away unsteadily down the stairs. Pern had troubles enough already without dissention among its Weyrleaders. Without further animosity—more understandable perhaps, if no better justified—toward Elijah and his queen. 

Still they passed him, these vanquished men, in ones and twos and occasional knots of three or more together. This time, of course, Meretin could have no idea how many riders may be left in the flight, let alone who of all others may remain to the end—if indeed any dragon triumphed over Frideth, any rider over Elijah. He had lost even a rough count, long ago, but at last he began to think there could not be more than a handful or so left within, all hoping still to claim Elijah in his weyr. 

With so many having departed, the concerted hum of eager breaths had leached imperceptibly into to an ominous quiet, but now—so different in tone that Meretin started on his cold stone seat—there was a sudden flurry of sounds, away beyond the curtain. 

Deliberate eavesdropping—outside a queen-rider’s weyr, and during a mating flight, no less—was scarcely dignified behavior in a Master of his craft. No matter what anyone may think of him, _nothing_ could have kept Meretin from heaving stiffly to his feet and setting his ear more closely against the weave, the better to hear what may be happening inside.

There—was that a rattle of something? And those were quite distinctly hurried footsteps—though not so near that a rider may emerge to catch Meretin in this most unseemly of positions. Was there a tussle, perhaps, between desperate men whose dragons jostled still—high up and very far away—for Frideth’s favor? He could not make out the meaning of such noises, and anyway they were quickly ended. 

Then, from farther away—from the Bowl itself, perhaps—came the whoosh of powerful wings and many voices raised in a shouted babble of excitement. Elijah’s weyr, however, was quiet once more, and now Meretin must move aside in some haste as a further straggle of riders emerged. Too dazed and exhausted to note his presence at all, these men seemed barely able to stumble down the stairs unaided. 

Others must tend to them. Meretin could not now be spared from his self-imposed vigil, for there could surely not be more than one or two riders left in the flight. He sensed, somehow, that the end was very near.

For moments on end, it seemed—he held his breath to listen—the weyr was eerily quiet, no sound whatever from within.

Then the silence was splintered shockingly apart by the sound of Elijah’s resistance—incoherent, defiant, and heartbroken. 

Meretin closed his eyes and clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain still upon his stair until he may be called for.

This concludes Part Three of To Ride in Search

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	30. Part Four: Pern Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

  
**There...**

_…afoot and in a place completely new to him..._  


Without warning, the unending emptiness of black was rent apart with rampant orange-red fire, stark and painful to look upon against the deep indigo of a late evening sky.

The sudden buffet of heat was even more shocking, after the long dark and a lacerating cold. Sea'n spat the breathing tube from his mouth but cried aloud as he attempted to take a breath and choked on hotter and fouler air. 

Their flight careened suddenly sideways, for more and worse than heat and smoke alone spewed upward from this caldera, beneath the star pattern that dragon and rider had come so long and so far to seek. All around them now was a spray of searing ash, shot through here and there with larger projectiles of burning rock. Their only hope was a moon-path, silvered cool over water—a tiny vision at the corner of Sea'n’s eye, so distant and so perfect as to seem unreal. 

Sammath’s agony seared through Sea'n in the seconds before he wrenched them into _between_ once more. After that rain of fiery ash, the cold dark was no longer an endless torment of nothing, only a welcome balm against the vicious, parching heat. In desperation then, his dragon had snatched that faraway image from Sea'n’s mind, for they emerged in a long slow glide above a moonlit sea. 

The bronze was no longer flying as such, only coasting heavily—lower and lower, far along the ribbon of brightness stretched wide over the flat calm of a crescent-shaped cove. He followed its path steadily enough, his pain quieted a little by the chill of _between_ though it echoed keenly still, inside Sea'n’s head.

Sea'n himself was coughing painfully, a deep dry cough that burned within and needed the balm of cool water, if nothing more, to soothe it. But his dragon’s hurts were greater by far, and must be tended first.

_Sammath?_

They splashed down onto the surface of the bay, Sammath’s great wings outspread upon it. The water oozed up to shimmer, moonlit, over them and Sea'n saw the worst of that hurt. Each was peppered with holes, some tiny, some bigger than his joined fists. A single one—or even a scattering—would be of little account in itself, but these were significant in their numbers. In several places they lay close enough to form one gaping hole, stretched across with crisp black shards of skin that once was there.

_The mountain’s heat does not consume, as Thread sears through muscle and into bone, but it burns nonetheless._ Sammath’s voice was tight and pain-filled as he paddled them toward an arc of sloping beach.

_We have numbweed—quick now!_ said Sea'n, his gauntlets falling into the water as he stripped them off. His hands felt huge and almost numb but he managed to release the tight grip of Elijah’s cautious clothespin from his nose and breathe more freely at last. He tossed it toward the beach so he should lose neither it nor his memory of Elijah laughing—the gloves would float and could be retrieved later. He forced his fumbling fingers to unclip the straps from his belt so he could dismount. 

_The water eases it, though it would be better were it colder still._ Body still floating, buoyed up by the outspread wings, Sammath angled his neck onto the beach so Sea'n could slither directly onto the white sand. 

He landed awkwardly, falling to his knees after that cramped eternity of cold, and coughing so deep in his chest, it hurt. He remembered then the many protections Elijah had insisted on against _between_. A wave of love and longing for his mate swept through him. He knew now that he would not have survived—that neither he nor his dragon could have survived that endless ordeal of darkness—without Elijah’s thoughtful preparations. 

Now, with the tools of Elijah’s providing—fellis juice among them for this painful cough, he knew—it was up to Sea'n to ensure they survived their journey’s end. 

He was too well and thickly wrapped to move with any ease, and it was a struggle to shed, first the cumbersome breathing apparatus, then the heavy swaddling of furs and heated stones alike. The latter were all of them cold again, their warmth spent completely in keeping him alive. The external wher-hide had dried out, crackling stiffly as he moved, and the furred edge to his hood had crisped and crinkled in the heat. The smell, unnoticed until now, was quite nauseating so close to his nose. 

Casting all aside as swiftly as he could, he clambered back aboard Sammath to release the tightly-lidded buckets, strung by their handles from the long ropes that draped his sides. 

He saw now that the only unharmed parts of his dragon were those covered by his cargo of supplies—their outline fully discernible across his hide. Of the rest, there was little that was not a little singed, if not wholly blistered, by the heat of the volcano. Sea'n shuddered to think what would have been their fate had they emerged from _between_ just a little closer to that raging heat.

Elijah was right to insist they brought so much numbweed, though he could not have known this need. Neither of them had envisaged the wind-blown effluvium of a tetchily belching volcano. 

_Come up onto the sand now, or the weed will leach away into the water and be lost!_

Sammath lurched further forward on the beach, and Sea'n realized that even the tough skin of his feet had not quite escaped a searing. Dragon hide was more than able for the bitter chill of _between_ , but even the sidelong heat of a volcano was far beyond what most of them would ever know. Aside from the membrane of his wings, Sammath’s skin may be far thicker than Sea'n’s, but it would char just the same, if more slowly. Only Sammath’s body beneath him, and Elijah’s insistence on so much wher-hide, furred within, had saved Sea'n too from a scorching at least, if not severe burns. 

Still his dragon’s pain tore keenly through his mind. The numbweed was a thinly viscous liquid, designed to be brushed at speed over Threadscored dragon hide. As Sea'n quickly splashed it over Sammath’s spread wings, he too sighed at the easing of the hurt. He fervently hoped that he would one day show his thanks to Elijah, among many other things—he stopped himself from thinking further of that.

In the worst need, every rider would treat his or her dragon’s Threadscore. In the treatment, however, the pain was redoubled for dragon and rider alike—a sharing from which even the most dedicated healer did not suffer. 

Small patches of scorched membrane would heal themselves in time, but Sea'n could see there were a number of gaps he must make good—bridging them with finely-woven cloth, plastered to what remained by the healing paste he knew Elijah would also have included in case of need. While that did its work, a daily application of oil would be essential to ensure flexibility in the repairs, lest Sammath be left with an irritant now and a hindrance to flying forever.

Tomorrow, by daylight, was soon enough to begin. For now, with the worst of his pain eased, food, water and rest were even more necessary. Even by moonlight it was clear that Sammath’s hide was no longer a vibrant healthy bronze but the color of dirty sand—grayed out, almost desiccated, and infinitely weary in itself.

_You must eat_ , said Sea'n, and again thanked his mate’s forethought. The biggest of the burdens Sammath carried was a bundle of carcasses from prime herdbeasts. Sea'n cut them loose and set a couple directly in front of Sammath’s muzzle. _Eat up, or Elijah will_ —he cut off the thought. 

_Elijah knows I shall eat the food of his providing._ Sammath’s mental chide was somewhat muffled as he made short work of his meal.

_The providing was actually done by Frideth and Litanith, while you stuffed yourself further!_ Sea'n pointed out.

_Elijah said I must be as full as possible without discomfort, so I would be strong enough to fly when we came from_ between _at last,_ Sammath said with dignity.

_And it is a good thing that you were!_ Yet one more instance of Elijah’s forethought for the venture, without which they would never even have escaped _between_.

For a wonder, that freezing clutch had not frozen the waterskins solid. He emptied a few of them into a wide, shallow canvas bucket next, setting it within Sammath’s reach. It would not be easy for Sammath to drink from, but was the best Sea'n could offer tonight. To find fresh water must be his first search, once the sun was risen. There must be streams feeding into the bay—he would need to dig one wide and deep enough for Sammath to drink his fill. 

Even before that, perhaps, he needed a place to keep the samples cool. Maybe there would be a place among rocks or by such an inland stream. He could not now think of flying anywhere at all, much less away from this climate that was balmy even at night, and seemed to promise a warm day in prospect.

Sea'n dipped himself a mugful of the water and drank it gratefully down, its coolness easing his tight, dry throat. He sighed his relief and scooped a second mug that he lightly laced with fellis juice. Peering around him in the moonlight, he wondered if he could be bothered to sort his belongings enough to find something to eat. He definitely had not energy enough to find wood for a fire, not even for the familiar comfort of hot klah—and maybe he would be better off without its heat in him, for now. 

The trees inland of the beach might still serve, though. They were well hung with fruits that, when Sea'n reached up to gently squeeze them, seemed ripe enough to eat. For a moment he wondered if they might be poisonous, but their sweet fragrance was too mouth-watering to resist. Their juicy-sweet flesh, sliding cool and mellow down his throat, put new life into him. 

He cut down several more of the ripest, returning to rummage in the topmost of the bundles he knew should contain food. Bringing out a fresh crusty loaf and some cheese to enjoy with them, he ate thankfully. When he heard Sammath reach for a third beast, he didn’t envy him his rations in the slightest. 

_When will Thread come?_ he asked then.

With Sammath’s injuries soothed for now and his immediate needs provided for, this was Sea'n’s most pressing question. Sammath would know how soon they must seek shelter—if Thread was falling in this turn or not. Master Galdine had said that the star pattern did not indicate actual Threadfall, but Sea'n had no wish to prove him irrefutably wrong in the worst possible way.

There was a pause.

_Thread does not fall here yet,_ Sammath said. Sea'n also heard, and tactfully ignored, a sound much like a canine lapping water from its dish, but louder.

_We are in a time between Passes, then?_

A sucking slurp almost drowned Sammath’s confirmation.

No Thread. Sea'n allowed himself a sigh of heartfelt relief. There was time for damaged wings to rest and heal without that worry, at least. He emptied another couple of waterskins into Sammath’s bucket, reserving only the last for his own use.

_Are there dragons nearby?_

The pause this time was longer. Sea'n could almost feel Sammath stretching his senses, searching for familiar places—for the things he knew and understood. 

_The Weyr is far away across the sea, and it is empty. It does not feel right. There are no dragons there._

Another, even longer pause. 

_Igen too is empty. Fort and Benden also. Ista and High Reaches, the same. There are no dragons in any Weyr. No dragons anywhere on Pern, only—_

If dragons could frown in puzzlement, Sea'n knew Sammath would be doing so. He could hear it as the voice in his head had slowed and now sharpened to astonishment.

—little _dragons?_

_Hatchlings? How can there be hatchlings if you say there are no—?_

_Not hatchlings—smaller, much smaller, not-quite dragons! They know we are here. They are curious. Soon they will come look._

Sea'n was equally surprised, but speculation about ‘not-quite dragons’ would require more effort that he could spare tonight.

If he must speculate, it should involve the problem of at once being here and finding help—and yet never having been here at all, so far as the records of any Weyr were concerned. Or of the Harper Hall itself. Not a song, not a chant, not so much as a sly, allusive ditty. Which was odd, to say the least. 

One man may be lost among many, but a dragon? A _bronze_ dragon, at that? Sea'n was fairly certain that whatever else may have faded from memory, the visit from a future time by a dragonrider and his bronze could never have been forgotten. 

Perhaps that was the answer? Sammath should not fly again for several sevendays, to give his wings their time to heal. And he shouldn’t go _between_ for at least two more after that. Like it or not, Sammath must remain here, as hidden as may be. 

It must be Sea'n alone who would be seen, traveling on foot to seek out someone who could tell him how and where to find the help for which he had come. Such knowledge was far beyond the grasp of any local journeyman healer. Only a Master Healer—and probably every member of his Hall—would be of use, and yet that meant the entire population of Fort Hold would see him— 

_No-one lives in Fort Hold as yet,_ Sammath said. _There is no hold such as we have seen, only a vast and empty cavern._

_No Harper or Healer Hall before it?_

_No._

Neither the first Hold nor Weyr settled yet? But then…

No northern Weyrs or Holds at all, only empty sites and _far across the sea_ at that? And hadn’t Elijah had mentioned references to people moving north—‘to shield’, whatever that meant? Sea'n realized he and Sammath were more than likely on the southern continent right now—and the people of this time probably lived here still. 

In his own time the south was abandoned as Thread-bared, but already he had picked and eaten ripe fruit from the trees that edged the beach. Farther inland, shadow upon shadow—dark against a sky lit pale with stars—rustled and swayed in a breeze that was cooling now, as night wore toward morning. They proved beyond doubt that there was vegetation aplenty here and now. 

It made only sense that Sammath _would_ land here, flying by a southern star pattern somehow left for him by those very people, for him to use in his time, far away in their future—bringing him from their future to his far off past.

But here was a problem even Elijah could neither anticipate nor guard against. Searching out a southern Healer Hall may take many sevendays, when Sea'n must now go afoot and in a place completely new to him. It was time he really could not afford, for the samples would all too quickly thaw and lose what usefulness they may have. 

No use regretting, now, his plan to fly _between_ to Telgar’s ice cavern and store them there again until he found the MasterHealer of this time. There was no way he could leave Sammath until his wounds were properly treated and had at least begun to heal. Even then, there was the oil that must be regularly applied.

Only in Sammath’s complete healing lay their hope of ever returning home, with or without the remedy they had come so far to seek.

Exhausted now, Sea'n sighed and drifted into sleep, tucked close against his dragon with a single fur for warmth. His search for all such answers must wait for morning.

He woke early to the lingering stench of singed fur, and an unfamiliar chirping. He lay without moving for several minutes, trying to remember where he had packed the sling and whether there might be any stones handy. He had brought plenty of food with him, of course, but most of it would keep and roast flier would make a tasty dinner. 

_We have company_ —Sammath sounded amused— _but not the kind you have for dinner!_

_Company?_ Sea'n opened his eyes at that, but the day was young as yet, the sun low behind his dragon making of him a huge black shape against its brightness. He squinted, but Sammath still seemed to have grown lumps and bumps where none should be.

He sat up then. The chirps increased in number and volume, the lumps all seemed to rise from Sammath’s back and vanish in an instant, like a dragon going _between._

Sea'n got to his feet in a hurry but Sammath now looked the same as ever, setting aside the injuries Sea'n had still to treat.

_Your ‘small, not-quite dragons’ I presume. Will they return?_

_Perhaps. They are not fond of men, who try to catch them._

_Try—and fail because they escape_ between _?_

_Exactly. Many have been impressed at their hatching but many more remain wild and free. Men call them dragonets, though they are much smaller than our dragonets at the Weyr._

_They do not fear you for your size?_ Sammath was, after all positively vast compared with the brief glimpses Sea'n had caught before the entire flock went _between._

_Why would they when I am of their blood?_

_How can you know such a thing?_

Sea'n wasn’t completely certain but he thought Sammath had just shrugged at him. 

_I know_ , said his bronze, and that was that.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	31. Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…a grand place to settle and bring up a family…_

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  
Before the skimmer had even glided to a halt, Keela O’Brien had her safety belt off, fingers on the canopy auto-opener. She was halfway out even before the hydraulics sighed it all the way up.

‘I’m off for a swim!’ she said predictably, and darted for the path they had worn down from their meadow out to the cove. ‘See you later, Dad!’ she yelled as she disappeared toward the beach, waving a colorful towel in one hand and the black tangle of her waist pouch already in the other.

‘Be careful!’ Jothan called, though she did not really need the telling. She was a sensible girl and safe enough at the cove, for she had been swimming from a toddler. She loved it here. He had made the right choice, he knew. It was a grand place to settle and bring up a family. Rissa would have said so. She would have loved it here, too.

He left the skimmer more temperately, shading his eyes to look skyward, but it was empty. Lefe and Teron still hadn’t put in an appearance. They disliked skimmers and as a rule chose not to accompany him on a journey. Occasionally, though—just minutes after he’d cracked open the canopy—there would be a chitter above him from both brown and blue. 

Today, however, was a busy day of birthing at their temporary home-stake. Not only was the latest batch of calvings well underway, but Anna-Marie Du Vieux was about to deliver her fourth child. Given such a widespread need for bugled welcomes, Jothan doubted his dragonets would be joining him at all.

Here on the wide, flat meadow there was nothing more than a neat pattern of marker flags and an impressive pile of plas-stakes as yet. Most of the building materials he had amassed were safe in storage. He would need one of the big sleds, not just a skimmer, to bring everything out once he was ready to make a start—and it would not be long, now. Once the ground was leveled, the joists in place and the framework erected, they could roll out the plas-sheet flooring, and set up walls of the new, pressed vegetable-fiber slabs quikplased to it.

It was a pretty economical use of the otherwise useless part of a crop, he reckoned. The bigger, settled stakes with crop residues to spare all had a unit to churn them out by the score. All a man had to do was to round up the raw material, feed the machine, haul the slabs out to where they were needed and start building. It had taken a while but Jothan had enough and to spare now, stacked up in one of the seasonally empty barns. Before the stock there needed wintering, Jothan and his family would have a home and stock of their own.

Their stake acres were claimed already—a huge sweep of land well able to provide for his kids _and_ theirs, when the time came. Just a month or two more and he would have the last of the credits he needed for the heavy gauge silicon-plastic roofing sheets instead of the flimsier carbon-fiber. And once the roof was on, they would have a real home again at last.

A year from now, and Kahrain Province would be settled all the way from Oslo Landing, past the cove and right round the headland to meet with Paradise River stake. A bunch of families with adjoining stakes, much like the grouping where he and his were. 

Of course, he had not reckoned on doing it alone. Well, he would not really be alone.

Of his sons, Padraig’s final exams in the vet school at Landing were coming up in the not too distant future. He would be home for good, then—their own private vet—and they could make a real start on the place. Ruari, three years younger, had shown a marked aptitude for engineering and was currently serving an apprenticeship with Fulmar Stone, also at Landing—though he was due home for a mid-term break within the month. His training would be of real value about the place. Cillian, the baby of the family, was still just a pre-schooler, of course, but he would grow to be a help.

Of Jothan’s two daughters, Keela was always ready to pitch in as and where she could, though she was only just into her thirteenth year. But Róisín… Jothan sighed.

Róisín could not have been less like her twin. Where Ruari was studious and self-contained, Róisín always had to be where the action was, as the saying went. They were of age now, and Ruari had already put forward his own ideas on how to design and equip the stake. His sister would doubtless furnish a home in exquisite taste but she had no interest whatever in creating one from nothing. 

When the family finally moved out to the Cove, Jothan knew Róisín would opt to stay on in the housing unit she shared with her age-mates. Well, if that was what she wanted, he supposed.

What Jothan had wanted was gone for good, now. He’d be building more for the boys and Keela, now, than for… He shook his head to clear it of self-pitying thought, and looked around at the land he had claimed.

The other Kahrain stakeholders—the Rosses and the Marins, to the east and west of here—would be settling their claims at much the same time. They, too, were still in need of a few more credits before they could start building in earnest. 

Trading work, three determined men with seven strong, almost grown sons between them, should have all the muscle needed for the myriad tasks involved in developing their holdings from scratch. Everything from putting up buildings to piping in water supplies, from erecting solar panels to breaking ground for the gardens and corn crops.

Every colonist could claim an allotment of livestock from the gene banks, and with Padraig right there at Landing to make the selection, Jothan was confident they would have the best types for their holding. There was plenty more level land here that, cleared of brush and put to meadow, would support enough stock for the family’s needs in milk and meat and wool. For a credit crop, though, he and the boys mostly figured on harvesting the indigenous fruits that were so plentiful around here. 

Transport was more or less arranged in advance with Raoul Mendez, who had taken a fancy to a well-sheltered bay, only a klick or two up the coast from Oslo. He had staked his claim and was building there already. With its sweep of sandy beach and a rocky outcrop at one end, just ripe for shaping into the seawall for a harbor, it was ideal for a sailor and fisherman, he said, and he’d be in the hauling business too, just as soon as Jothan had something to haul and somewhere to haul it to. 

Skimmers wouldn’t be available much longer to transport anybody’s crop anywhere, but pretty soon some enterprising soul would set up a market on the Jordan, right handy for Landing. Fruits were scarce there and should command a decent return on the labor involved.

There weren’t near as many folks living at Landing these days, though not everyone had rushed to claim their stake acres as yet. Many of the services were still located there, particularly stores and engineering, and the vet school, with the labs where the many stored embryos were still being bred up, to stock more and more new holdings.

Initially, Jothan had thought about remaining in the labs there a while longer, but when the Holstrums first opened their stake to those still needing to earn credits, Henrik specifically mentioned the need for a geneticist, preferably with veterinarian experience. Someone _in situ_ who could tinker with the deficiencies some of their third and fourth generation stock were showing even now, on a diet of crops unfamiliar to genotypes brought from Old Earth. 

Rissa was more than willing to make the move. 

‘It’s a grand opportunity,’ she said, ‘and it might have been made especially for you! Plus, you’d have a lot more independence than you have now.’ It was true that Jothan had begun to chafe at the restriction of working under Reidol. ‘I think we should go for it. There’s bound to be an opening for a childcare worker, too— _and_ it’ll give us a base for claim-spotting out that way!’

His laboratory there was plenty good enough for the work he performed, if nowhere near as extensive or as well-equipped as the labs at Landing—though he could call on their resources at need. And even they were nowhere near as comprehensive as the facilities he’d enjoyed back on First. No matter the field of endeavor, the Federated Sentient Planets possessed the most sophisticated equipment known to man—or alien ally. Still did, of course, but leaving all that behind was the whole point of the Pern colony.

Jothan had thought he’d maybe miss being able to requisition anything in the known galaxy, the way he could back then, but a small lab of his own and almost complete autonomy here proved him wrong in that. It was enough to know his work was successful, directed as it was toward improvement in the breeding stock that roamed the lush fields beyond the windows there. 

Genetic tinkering sure beat out the slow selection by breeding that was the only way generations long past had to produce hardier beasts with better milk production, more heavily fleshed carcasses or higher quality wool. Especially when the genotypes they brought with them to Pern were still having these minor adjustment problems with nutrient intake, thanks to Pern’s unique soil composition. 

For now, there was a limit to what a man could achieve alone out here on his restday, but Jothan planned on using the time to clear further land of its thick covering of brush. Maybe even drive in the posts to mark out the home paddocks. The major stake’s one automatic wire tensioner was in constant use, but he’d be ready to go once his name came up for that. It would be good if he could set out some of the flooring joists today, too, so the homestead would begin to have its shape at last. 

Keela would come back full of zeal to help, just as soon as she had enjoyed her longed-for swim. She looked far more like him than like Rissa, but with all her mother’s enthusiasm for life and living. 

Her zest for life had not been enough to keep Rissa alive, however, when she was bitten by one of the local bugs. Rissa had proved to be one of the very few people, to date, to suffer anaphylactic shock in response to any critter found on Pern. He could not have foreseen a need for one—no-one could—but still Jothan would not easily forgive himself that he had not thought to bring at least one epinephrine au-ject with him on that trip.

Rissa had wanted her daughter named for Róisín Dubh, the Dark Rosaleen of Old Ireland, though in truth her twin and their elder brother Padraig had the darker coloring. Given her bright hair and creamy skin—and even without the dusting of freckles Jothan had loved so much—the fact was, Róisín was so much like her mother it hurt sometimes to look at her.

It was a great pity she had not also inherited Rissa’s graceful temperament. In fact, much as it pained Jothan to admit it, now she was in her late teens Róisín’s very real attractions were too often accompanied by a dauntingly supercilious attitude. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of his own Auntie Áine, who died just before the Pern expedition departed, without either partner or child to comfort her. 

That, at least, would not happen to Róisín. It was accepted that every woman of child-bearing age would—if only in a limited-term contract arrangement—add to the population of Pern. 

More from what Padraig did _not_ say, during his infrequent comm. chats from Landing, Jothan suspected his eldest son already had his eye on a girl there. Whether it was serious enough to be thinking of contracts or even daughters-in-law, he had no idea. Ruari showed no signs of interest in anyone as yet, which did not surprise Jothan in the least. And from the looks of it, his twin was definitely in no rush to make any arrangement that lasted longer than a month or two at most. 

It was not diffidence holding Róisín back, though—far from it. She was having too much fun setting the Holstrom boys at loggerheads—with each other and against Pierre Duquesne’s son Armand. Sometimes even outrageously flirting with Luis Ciotti who, as anyone could see, was too young, too shy and too skinny as yet ever to seriously attract an acknowledged beauty. 

Bees and honeypots had not a thing on Róisín, Jothan reflected, then sadly remembered that honeybees hadn’t survived the transition to Pern. He knew the Pern colony should think itself real lucky that the native pollinators here were suited to most of the crop genotypes brought with them from Earth or First. 

They’d have been in deep, _deep_ trouble without them, he thought, remembering a fiasco from the early days of intergalactic colonial enterprise. The entire population of Criscen II came to the brink of starvation when imported honeybees proved susceptible to a previously unknown RNA virus. It was presumably carried by the native pollinators, which refused point blank to have anything to do with Terran-bred crops. They also proved resistant to genetic tinkering—which admittedly had no access back then to the advanced techniques available now. 

By the time the problem was fully realized, crop yields gave zero return on the seed sown, and the food replicators were completely incapable of feeding an already greatly increased population.

And Criscen II hadn’t been at the other end of the galaxy, either—like Pern, with help at least twenty-five years away. 

Well, bio-engineering was practically in its infancy at the time, but it still didn’t do to be too complacent. Even now, they had lost several species of plants and animals—and the honeybees. Jothan sighed. He would give a lot to taste honey again. Or coffee! At least there was plenty of klahbark to be had out here at the stake. 

Anyhow—his mind reverted to his earlier thought—his elder daughter was unlikely to be contracted until well after he, Padraig and Ruari, Cillian and Keela—and maybe Padraig’s girl too?—were properly settled out at their new home.

Jothan was not sure he would be completely sorry to lose his troublesome daughter to one of the more populous stakes. They could visit easily enough from here, after all. It was not as if they saw much of her these days as it was. She visited only rarely—generally just to collect something she still needed from what was still _her_ old room, or to dump stuff she didn’t want ‘cluttering up’ where she lived now. She much preferred the company of her fellow textile workers—when the hold boys weren’t around, that was. 

Her only real interest and skill lay in textiles—she would have wanted to try for one of the big fashion houses on First, if he and Rissa hadn’t decided to embark with the Pern Expedition. Her work now was mostly practical, but Jothan knew his daughter possessed a true creative talent, with clothing designs on her terminal that she used to tempt hoarded credits from the less artistically gifted. 

Róisín’s creations graced every one of the regular restday-eve dances, held each month at one or other of the settled stakes. Even Jothan could see the appeal of her designs, made up much more attractively in dressy stuff brought from off-world, than from the fabrics that were beginning to be made here. 

He was very proud of her achievements, but if Róisín stayed behind, Jothan would be spared the sharp pain that still pierced him sometimes. It happened less often as the years went by, but even now, he could look up and forget for just a moment that she wasn’t, couldn’t ever be Rissa.

He still hadn’t forgiven himself, even if he knew no-one could have anticipated…

They had requisitioned a skimmer to travel way inland, still prospecting for their stake acres. Padraig was studying at Landing already, Ruari, the girls and baby Cillian left safely in the care of Margit Janssen, who worked with Rissa. It was like a second honeymoon—for two nights and three days. 

Until Rissa woke him on the third night, gasping for breath. He left all the gear they brought with them—it was still there, for all he knew; he was never going back there again—and set off at the skimmer’s top speed. They weren’t even halfway to the nearest medic when she died. 

Now, he carried au-jects everywhere, and insisted his children did, too. Keela’s were in the waist-pouch she wore wherever she went, and he had made sure she knew just how to use one at need. He trusted his grown sons always to keep one to hand—they were of an age at their mother’s death to understand a fatal lack of epinephrine. Róisín, though, had always been lax about carrying hers, even just after Rissa died. She was the least likely of the family to encounter any Pernese allergen, anyway. She hated the outdoors, so maybe she would stay lucky. 

Jothan made sure, of course, that there was a supply in the first aid cabinet at the combined stakes’ nursery Cillian attended with the rest of the very young. Another in the locker of the sled that collected and returned him, morning and evening. One nursery for all three stakes made most sense just like one school did, until the population of each grew to sustain its own. The children grew up better socialized that way, said Rissa—it was her area of expertise.

Jothan tried not to be over-protective of his family but it was hard not to, after that. Allergies in the Federation of Sentient Planets had been eradicated years ago, thanks to his predecessors in the genetic manipulation line. But you could not manipulate against allergens of alien origin for which you had no the genotype. 

Even now, with all the tools and knowledge at his fingertips, there was no practicable means of producing a specific antitoxin for whatever had killed Rissa. Doctor Metcalf—Lami—had spared him the job of obtaining the sample from her body. But they’d had— _still_ had—no idea exactly what creature gave the bite that looked small enough to be innocuous but sent Rissa into irreversible anaphylactic shock. 

He worked with Lami Metcalf to produce an antitoxin, but the sample had degraded too quickly. They pursued the matter obsessively—enough that more than a few of the folk here reckoned the two of them were getting close. Maybe they were, as friends. But Jothan had not let go his love for Rissa back then, and was not sure he would, for a while yet. 

Lami was a fine-looking woman. She would surely not want to wait that long—and yet, here they were, eight years after Landing, and still she showed no sign of contracting any other man. Keela liked her, and she was surprisingly good with shy little Cillian when Jothan took him for checkups. She was a pretty fine dancing partner too, though always she seemed to go home alone. 

Maybe once Jothan had a home to bring a new wife to, he could—

‘Hey!’ It was Keela’s voice, calling to someone on the beach.

Now, who would that be, way out here? Even on a Restday, stock waits for no man, and Pete Ross and his sons were all busy with the calvings at the major stake. He was pretty sure, too, that the Marins had skimmered down to the harbor to visit with Raoul and his family. No-one else was the least bit likely to come out here at all, so who—?

‘He-ey!’ 

Keela did not sound to be worried at all, and there could be no need to run—but Jothan set off in something of a hurry, all the same.

~~~~\~~/~~~~

Padraig is pronounced POdrig  
Róisín Dubh = RoSHEEN Duv,  
Ruari = ROry  
Áine = AWN-ye,  
Cillian as KIL-e-an

The O'Briens are, of course, a nod to McCaffrey and to Pern’s Irish immigrant families. Rissa decided on traditional names for her children because she knew that one day they would be emigrating across worlds[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	32. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

_…almost quivering in her eagerness to tell…_

‘Hey!’

Sea'n looked up quickly at the call. He was perched on the convenient rock by his fire pit—knife in one hand, half-completed carving in the other. 

Something about one particular chunk of driftwood had said _dragon_ to him, the minute he lifted it to feed his small fire to make klah, that first morning here. Before he knew it his knife was out and the wood paring away beneath it as if it actually wanted to become the dragon he saw within. This was his first essay in the craft since he left his birth hold to become a dragonrider, so many years ago. Somehow it felt as natural as if he still did it every day. 

Its initial resemblance to Sammath grew with every stroke of the blade—the curve of his brow, the set of his head. Dragons were as different as people to those who knew them, and for Sea'n, the form that emerged here captured Sammath’s very being. There was work still to do on it—not least the crisscross pattern of scarring to the side of his face—but he laid it aside to meet this most welcome of visitors.

‘He-ey!’ A young girl had emerged from the trees and came hurrying toward him.

‘Hello!’ Sea'n called back, keenly noting what she wore. He had expected the people in this time to dress very differently, but her clothes looked much the same as far as shape went—shirt and trousers with a sleeveless jerkin over all. 

The colors, though, were brighter—almost festive—and the fabric quite different—too light and bright to be practical, surely? As she drew nearer he saw that the material was _very_ different. Almost as shiny as one of Candessa’s well-scoured cooking pots, it was like nothing Sea'n had ever seen before.

Maybe these were her gather clothes—though there was nothing actually decorative about them, and he knew there could be no gather for klicks around. 

He had tramped a good way along the coast in each direction, and climbed the tallest tree he could find to take a look inland. There was no sign anywhere of either hold or the meanest of cots—and the skies remained empty of dragon wings. Occasionally he caught sight of a shape way off in the sky—almost wingless and too compact to be dragon, probably too big for dragonet or even wherry.

There was a half-familiar cone shape, way down in the southeast, that might have been a Weyr, but Sammath was still adamant there were no dragons, not even in the north where they ought to be. The tiny dragonets did not talk as such, he said, they shared images with him. Strange images, they were, such as Sammath had never seen before—as they had never before seen one such as he.

The girl came to a halt at a comfortable distance, fair braids swinging. Her expression said she was equally surprised by Sea'n.

‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’m Keela. Who’re you and what on Pern are you doing way out here? Don’t you have a skimmer? Oh, wow—are you one of the traveling folk? The nomads, that don’t even _use_ skimmers? I heard there were some of them over toward Paradise River, I just didn’t think didn’t think they— _you_ —would’ve gotten this far east again yet, but—’ She shrugged and gave him a grin. 

‘Well, here you are anyway! Were you headed to one of the major stakes? If you were, you’re _way_ lost! We live on one of them for now, but this,’ she waved one arm to take in both the area she’d come from and the entire arc of beach, ‘this is our stake—my dad and brothers and me, we’ve claimed it already. Most of Upper Kahrain is taken, too, as far as I know. So,’ she ended, ‘Where _are_ you headed?’

‘I am not really sure,’ Sea'n temporized. Since he had never heard of Kahrain at all, nor of stakes except as lengths of wood, and had no idea where on Pern he was to begin with, he couldn’t really answer the question. One reply, however, he could quite safely make. ‘I do not think you would know any of my people.’

‘I guess you’d be right about that!’ she said, and laughed. She looked him up and down then, quite obviously as intrigued as by his clothing as he was by hers. 

‘What are you—one of the Tuareg? Can’t be, you’re not…and you don’t have the—’ she waved one hand in a circle about her head. ‘Rom, then? Though I’d have thought—not that it makes any difference, of course! Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have asked? It was one of the first lessons in school—whatever you were, we’re all Pernese now! My family, we’re—we _were_ —Irish, though, can you tell?’ Her smile was engaging and Sea'n was quite content to listen. The more he could learn about her people, the better. 

‘The thing is, I’ve always been real interested in the marginal communities of old Earth, and how they survived against the odds. I think I’d’ve studied anthropology if we’d stayed, but then the teach would be all about,’ she paused briefly for a breath, raising her hands to crook two fingers on each, for some reason Sea'n didn’t understand, ‘ _appreciating our allies_ , and _that_ would be about as much use as nothing, out here on Pern!’ 

She still did not look like running out of words any time soon, so Sea'n just nodded encouragement, hoping she would say something helpful before too long. 

‘Your people must’ve come with us, though, so maybe it’s ok to… Well, anyway, I can tell by looking that whichever you were, you don’t use much tech—maybe vid viewers, right? And every single one of those traveler groups took right off again from Landing, my dad said, and disappeared into the wilds with just tents and stuff—or maybe travel-vans? I know there were some, packed away in the Buenos Aires’ cargo hold—all in pieces, like jigsaws. Boy, I bet _they_ were fun to put back together—and just think how much glue you’d need!’ 

_Vid viewers? Travel-vans? Jigsaws?_ Sea'n politely stifled his sigh. The girl—Keela—had so many questions and comments that he barely caught, let alone understood, the half of them. She talked too fast, using too many words and ideas he had never even met before.

‘Anyway, you’ve gotten a heck of a way from Landing, to say you don’t have skimmers and you had to wait years for your horses and stuff to mature—or is it camels your people have? And hey, I talk too much, don’t I? Sorry!’ 

She must have noticed his bemused expression at last, for she firmly closed her mouth, swiped finger and thumb together across it as if to silence herself and cocked her head inquiringly. 

Sea'n suspected she may need to do that often—maybe as often as Saben had to put a hand over his mouth, in much the same cause. She was older than his son by maybe a turn or two, but she seemed to have the same kind of boundless enthusiasm for everything around her. 

Her last question was the only one he truly understood, but an honest answer would not be polite. Not when this garrulous girl must be his introduction to her people. 

‘I am sorry,’ she said again, ‘I didn’t give you chance to answer any of my questions and that was very rude of me, I know, but you really surprised me, way out here and all!’ Looking very much like Saben when he suddenly remembered formal manners, she stuck out her right hand and said, ‘I am Keela O’Brien and I am pleased to meet you. May I know your name?’ 

Since she obviously expected his hand in return, Sea'n tucked the almost-finished little dragon away inside his tunic, and accepted hers. It was not quite the clasp between riders but he solemnly returned her shake. She stood, then, head on one side, clearly waiting for him to answer.

‘I am pleased to meet you also, Keela O'Brien,’ he said. ‘I am Sea'n, rider of bronze Sammath.’ 

‘Okaaay,’ she said, drawing out the word further than Sea'n had ever heard. It was her turn now to look a bit puzzled—to his relief. 

‘Sammath is your horse, right? That you came out here on? Where is he, then? Did you part company?’ Her eyes seemed to twinkle at him. ‘I won’t tell—promise!—and I _will_ help you catch him!’ She lowered her voice for the next words, as if confiding a secret. ‘I _still_ come off of Pippin even though I’ve been riding for years now. It’s too far to ride out here on him, though. He’s a bay, part Connemara, part Welsh Mountain—is that the color your folks would call bronze?’

Before he could reply, her gaze strayed past him for the first time, farther along the shore. Along to where Sammath had just raised his head to take a look at her. He settled back again quickly, wings stretched wide in the blue-green shallows, his head and neck very noticeable against the white sand as he soaked up the healing sunshine. His broad back showed the usual complement of dragonets, also splayed out in the sun. 

Her eyes and mouth opened suddenly very wide, and for a wonder she had trouble getting words out at all.

‘What…but there aren’t—is that…a _dragon_?’

‘That,’ said Sea'n, rather enjoying her reaction, ‘is my bronze, Sammath.’

She took a step backwards. ‘Is he…? I mean, he won’t…?’

‘He will not hurt you.’ Sea'n rushed to reassure her. Sammath said there were no dragons in this time, so this child could never have seen one. Even a green could be daunting at first sight, and Sammath was one of the biggest bronzes. ‘Dragons exist to protect people, not harm them!’

She came forward again, a little more hesitant but every bit as curious as before. ‘I guess—’ she said, and swallowed, her eyes continually darting from Sean to Sammath, ‘—I guess you really _aren’t_ one of the traveling folk! I mean, we have the fire-lizards, but he’s, like, a thousand times bigger than they are! You aren’t one of us from the ships, at all, are you? What—who—where do you come from? Where are the rest of your people? Oh!’ Her face lit up with an obviously fresh idea.

‘You were already here _before_ us, weren’t you—up in the North maybe, where nobody knew? And you flew down here on—’ she pointed to Sammath, ‘—him, didn’t you? And hey, the fire-lizards seem keen on him!’ she added. ‘Is that ’cos they’re a lot like him? Or he’s a lot like them, I suppose,’ she added uncertainly.

After her first amazement Keela could still find both comment and question, but now she repeated the finger and thumb action across her mouth and was silent, finally waiting for an answer.

‘Where I come from is many klicks—and also many turns—away from here,’ Sea'n said cautiously, ‘and no, no-one else will come. What I am here for is more important. I come in search of a healer to help me, and all my people. Do you have a healer at your hold?’ 

_I need to leave you and go visit with these people_ , he told Sammath, _or our journey—and your hurt—will have been for nothing. I shall return as soon as I may._

_Go, then_ , said Sammath, _I am warm here in the sun. I shall task one of the small ones to follow you—tell her if you have need of me. She will keep our secret._

‘A healer? Sure, if you mean a medic,’ Keela said. ‘What do you need a medic for—is someone hurt? Or are your people sick? Is it some kind of epid—? She stopped in mid-word and then backed slowly away from him. ‘Are _you_ sick?’

‘No, not I,’ Sea'n quickly assured Keela, ‘This thing does not affect men—nor most females, either,’ he added when his reassurance clearly didn’t quite reach its mark, ‘only our weyrwomen. And it is not a sickness, as such. They remain well in themselves, it is only that their queens cannot lay properly—though it must also be said that their tempers are…not good!’ He waggled his eyebrows at Keela and she grinned back.

‘I know a few women who get that way every month!’ she said, laughing. ‘Oh—by queens, you mean _dragon_ queens, not fire-lizards? Wow! So, what—their laying patterns are out of sync? Aren’t regular,’ she clarified, when Sea'n’s brows rose in question.

_I don’t need an escort, Sammath. I shall be fine. You worry like_ —but the sudden image of Elijah’s delight in meeting someone like Keela came sharply to mind, and for a moment Sea'n’s loss bit like Threadscore— _like a wherry hen! And anyway, you should not even_ attempt _to fly for a sevenday or two—and you cannot go_ between _for longer still than that._

Sand sprayed up in front of Sammath’s muzzle—his snorted opinion of Sea'n’s caution. _If you need me, I shall be there._

Keela jumped at both sound and movement, relaxing again when she realized the bronze still lay motionless, his fire-lizard fringe equally somnolent.

With a nod for Keela’s question, Sea'n explained, ‘Also, too few eggs are laid, and those that are do not always hatch live dragonets. I have come because our healers can no longer seek out remedies in blood, though we know such things were once possible. I have brought blood, therefore, hoping that your people may—’

‘You brought blood? Keela interrupted. ‘Oh my! It’ll be no good if it’s not fresh—how old is it? How long did it take you to get here? I bet you don’t even have electricity where you live, do you?’

Whatever _electricity_ may be, Sea'n knew of no such thing in his time, but she barely waited for his head shake to deny it. 

‘So you’ll obviously not have freezers. Pity—samples are good for _years_ once they’re frozen.’

‘These are—or they _were_ —frozen,’ said Sea'n, ‘and I brought them packed in ice. I have done my best to keep them cool, though I fear they may thaw very soon, if they have not already. There is a cave among some rocks, by the stream back there. High enough up that they stay dry, but kept cooler by the water. I hauled in sand enough to bury them, too.’

‘Yeah, I know where you mean—that’s where we’re gonna pipe our water from, for the stock—us too, till we get a well drilled. Well, maybe they’ll be okay if they get to a freezer pretty soon.’ She did not seem entirely convinced of that, however—more as if she wanted to reassure him. ‘How long ago were they taken?’

Sea'n had no idea how long he and Sammath may have hovered in the icy darkness of _between_. ‘By my time, a few days—by yours, I have no idea at all.’ 

Keela looked from her left wrist, encircled by a colorful band that had a flat shiny square attached to it, to each of his—bare and growing quite tan now below rolled shirt sleeves. She shrugged but said nothing more of time.

‘We better go see my dad—he’ll know what to do. This way!’ She turned back the way she had come and Sea'n began to follow. Just beyond a bend in the path, however, a man was already coming to meet them. 

‘Keela? I heard voices!’ 

‘Dad! Dad! Look who I found! This is Sea'n—and you’ll never guess in a million, billion, trillion _years_ how he got here! Go on, guess!’

Sea'n would have known the man for her father without her words, for both were fair and stockily made, with snub noses and open, friendly faces.

‘Keela, manners, please!’ he said as he approached, and then, to Sea'n, ‘Hello! Were you looking for me? I’ve a pretty good memory for faces, but I can’t place you at all.’ He held out his hand for Sea'n to shake, as his daughter had done. 

From the corner of his eye Sea'n could see Keela almost quivering in her eagerness to tell what she had seen, while her father was caught up in the surprise of finding a stranger here. Those _manners_ held firm while adults were speaking.

She did, however, look up at Sea'n, a finger to her lips, her face begging the chance for her and not Sea'n to tell about Sammath. He could see how much she was looking forward to it but she would wait, . He could see how much she was looking forward to it, hugging it to herself—like Saben with a delicious secret to be shared, just as soon as his blood-father had a moment to spare for it.

‘I’m Jothan O’Brien—nice to meet you, Sea'n. I hope you’re not prospecting for a stake out this way, though. I’d be sorry to disappoint you, but we—a couple other family groups, Keela here, my sons and me—we’ve already claimed pretty much the whole of this part of Kahrain, from Oslo Landing,’ he waved a hand eastward, ‘right across to Paradise River. Some of us haven’t actually built our places yet—just need to earn the last few credits, you understand—but it’s all signed and sealed with the Council. Just so’s you know.’ 

He said it pleasantly enough but Sea'n could tell that he considered this place to be his, and would defend his right to it however he must.

‘No, indeed,’ Sea'n said quickly. ‘I have a—a place of my own already, and someone who waits for me there.’

Jothan O’Brien lost his guarded look at once. ‘So, where are you from?’

‘Most recently from Telgar, before that, Igen, and before—’

‘Telgar…Telgar? Don’t know of a stake by that name. The pilot that finally brought me and my family down to Pern was _Sallah_ Telgar, though—that where she is now? Last I heard she and whatsisname—Anderton? No, Andiyar, Tarvi Andiyar, that’s the one. The _intense_ kind of guy you don’t easily forget. So, yeah, he and Sallah were raising a family and running Karachi Camp too, last I heard. They moved?’ He shrugged. ‘News just doesn’t get around all that fast these days, what with everyone too busy out there _doing_ stuff, to spend much time on comm chatting about it.’

‘I do not know of Sallah at all,’ Sea'n admitted. It seemed safer not to comment on any of the other matters Jothan mentioned.

‘How can you not even know _about_ her, if you come from Karachi?’

‘I did not say I came from Karachi,’ Sea'n said, beginning to resent questions that did nothing but point out his own ignorance. ‘I come from the thirtieth turn of the fourth Pass.’ 

‘You come from _where_?’

‘No,’ said Sea'n, ‘not where, but _when_. Though even the where of it is very different from here. My home is many turns in the future and far to the north—and a great deal cooler for one thing. But even below the mountains, the trees and grasses are quite different in my time, or at least, in the place where I live. Much less—’ he paused to find the right word, ‘—much less luxuriant than here!’ 

He was not really surprised when his attempt to explain the differences between his home and theirs was ignored in favor of a question.

‘What do you mean, not _where_ but _when_?’

From behind her father, Keela snorted a laugh. 

It was all very well for her to find this conversation humorous. When you were actually a part of it, it was simply irritating, thought Sea'n.

‘ _When_ ,’ he repeated firmly. ‘I came back from my time to yours, though I do not know when yours may be.’

‘This is the eighth year after Landing,’ the man said with a frown, ‘but you—you came _back_? From where?’ He looked to be wavering between fascination with, if not belief in, Sea'n’s tale, and doubt as to whether Sea'n was delirious from too much sun—or maybe out of his head on some strong spirit.

‘He didn’t come with us in the ships, Dad, he already lived here before we came! And Daddy, he has a bronze dragon! A really, truly _dragon_!’ Keela burst out, finally unable to keep the secret no longer. Sea'n noticed the way excitement made her sound even younger. Like it did Saben. 

‘Hush, Keela—you can tell me about his fire-lizard later,’ Jothan said, clearly not quite taking in what she had said.

Sea'n had no idea what 'landing' the man may mean, but that could wait. The girl was right that the samples may thaw too soon to be of use. ‘I do not know when that is. What matters more is that my people desperately your help if you are willing to give it.’

‘Surely, if I can. What is it you need?’ Whatever Jothan O’Brien may believe of Sea'n’s state of mind, he was quick to offer aid.

‘It is not a simple task.’ Sea'n thought it only fair to warn him at the outset. ‘Our healers—but Keela said you call them medics—have only memories, and a very few records that are barely readable, of a time when there were ways to treat such things. Drugs,’ he remembered the unfamiliar word, ‘with which to treat the many ailments that we cannot. You have these things?’

‘Sure we do, some. But how would we—wait!’ He stepped hastily backwards, just as Keela had done, grabbing her hand to pull her behind him. ‘This sickness—what are the symptoms? Do you have it? Are you infected already?’

‘No, no!’ Sea'n raised his hands, palms outward in a gesture he hoped would reassure. ‘In truth I do not, and it is not a true sickness—they are not ill, only not—not as they should be. It affects only females—and only those of breeding age, so your daughter is safe,’ he added as Jothan made to tug Keela even further away. 

‘I have brought samples of blood and—’

‘Frozen, I hope? Can’t do a thing with it if it’s been hanging around in this heat.’

‘We set each one in chipped ice as soon as it was taken, and Sammath and I flew them all to the ice cavern after the collection—’

The man—Jothan—interrupted again. ‘An _ice cavern_? You don’t have freezers? And where in all the—?’ He broke off his last question and waved a hand. ‘No, never mind that just now, go on.’

‘They were frozen when I left my home to come here—but I arrived almost two days ago and they may not be so still. I put them well out of the sun—in the cave by the stream. You are the one who brought the stakes piled up in the meadow nearby?’ 

Jothan nodded absently, the fate of the blood samples clearly more urgent as far as he was concerned. ‘Yeah, sure, but we can talk about other stuff later. We’d best go get them right now and hope they haven’t thawed and clotted. They’re not much good for analysis after that. We should bring them straight back to civilization, stick them in a freezer and worry about what’s to be done with them after that. Sorry, Keela, looks like your swim will have to wait a while. This way, Sea'n,’ he said, and turned back the way he had come. 

Sea'n raised a brow at Keela, who giggled. They grinned at each other and set off after him.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	33. Civilization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah
> 
>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

‘Aw, Dad! Can’t I just stay here with Sammath?’

‘With a total stranger? Honey, you know better than that!’ 

Jothan halted mid-stride. He had not realized Sea'n was not here alone. The elusive and strangely-named Sammath—a pet name for Samantha, maybe?—might be no more than Sea'n’s partner, but with Sea'n looking by his clothes to be one of the traveling folk…well, wrong though it may be to bring Old Earth prejudices to bear, when it came to his daughter Jothan would let them rule until he learned better.

For now, no _way_ was he leaving Keela alone out here with a traveler. Taking a firm grasp on her hand, he towed her along with him.

‘Look, we’ll bring Sea'n back as soon as we get the samples safely sorted and stowed, ok? Maybe there’ll be time for a swim then. Come on, now—the quicker the better where blood is concerned—you know that.’

He almost added _It may be too late by now, anyway_ , then realized he’d already gotten a bit close to the knuckle with his dig at the less-than-technological lifestyle of Sea'n’s people. The guy was probably worried enough without him adding to it.

The cave was a little way inland from where Jothan had left the skimmer. When he saw the size of the crate, Jothan presumed his partner had helped bring it here from the beach, until he noticed faint drag marks. Well, he wouldn’t have asked Rissa to help carry something this substantial, either.

Between them they loaded it in back of the skimmer. It felt cool enough on the outside that he was hopeful the samples would still be viable within their packing. He was pleased to see Keela climb aboard right after the crate, politely leaving their guest to ride shotgun.

Sea'n, however, was eyeing the skimmer like he had never seen one before, and only slowly followed Jothan’s handwave into his seat. True, by his clothing he should be one of the ethnic nomads included among the colonists, but he must surely have _seen_ a skimmer, even if he’d never had the chance to ride in one. He’d probably be more at home with horses—or maybe it was camels, though weren’t the Tuareg dark-skinned? Well, there’d be plenty of time on the trip to his lab plenty of time to tactfully find out.

Also to sort out his weird delusions about place and time. He sure didn’t seem drunk, whatever else.

He locked down the siliplex canopy, demonstrated the safety webbing—though Sea'n was quick enough to fasten himself in—and revved up the skimmer. The motor unit was pretty quiet but the guy startled at it all the same. So, Jothan was right—he had not flown before—not awake, at least.. As they soared above tree height to begin the fast skim south-eastward, he was already gathering the right words in his mind. Words to soothe a panicking passenger whose only previous experience of flight had come courtesy of a cold sleep capsule.

But Sea'n only looked down with interest on the land they were over-flying. ‘Well, this is certainly a less drafty way to travel!’ was all he said. 

Jothan heard Keela giggle from in back, and wondered why.

‘You usually go a-horseback?’ he asked. 

‘No, I ride Sammath and he is not a horse, if by that you mean a runnerbeast.’

Not his partner, then, and Sea'n had indeed come alone. Jothan adjusted his ideas—and, a little shame-facedly, his prejudices. ‘So, he’s what? A—a camel?’ Keela laughed aloud at his question, and Jothan could tell she was squirming with mirth in her seatbelt. What was going _on_ here?

Sea'n looked over his shoulder at Keela and grinned. ‘You tell him,’ he said. ‘I doubt he will believe me, when I have no way to prove it.’

‘May I?’ Though, she plunged straight into her revelation, not giving Sea'n the chance to change his mind. ‘Sammath is…’ she paused for effect, ‘he’s a dragon, Dad—a _real_! And he’s huge—he looks just like Pierre’s bronze fire-lizard except he’s e _NOR_ mous! Bigger than our house, I mean. Nearly as far from end to end as the grain store, but maybe not quite as high as the hay barn.’ She emphasized her words with her arms stretched out as wide as they would go, cramped as she was sharing the backseat with Sea'n’s crate.

‘Now, Keela, don’t tell—’ Jothan began, but Sea'n was nodding his head and laughing outright now. 

‘He doesn’t believe it,’ they said both together and then Keela was giggling again and the guy was grinning. Jothan didn’t mind a joke, but this was a bit beyond joking.

‘You really expect me to believe that?’ 

‘Why not? It is the truth—though perhaps it would have been wiser to have you see Sammath first,’ Sea'n admitted.

‘He—this _dragon_ of yours—he’s back there somewhere, right?’ 

‘At our cove, all laid out on the beach,’ Keela chortled. 

When Sea'n nodded confirmation, Jothan turned the skimmer abruptly back toward the sea. He ignored the way Keela kept nudging Sea'n and laughing, and didn’t speak another word until the beach came in sight. 

From the air high above, he could not deny the head and neck that stretched, huge and darkly bronze, across the whiteness of sand—like and yet clearly not some kind of rock formation—nor the vast body between the wide, wide spread of wings over the bright azure waters of the cove. And if the various dots of color scattered along its highest ridge were actually fire-lizards, Keela was right about the size. It still took a couple of overhead passes before he could truly believe it, though. 

He took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘ _that_ was your Sammath? Remind me never to doubt your word again!’ He circled the skimmer back on course and turned to look at Sea'n.

‘So, you weren’t kidding—or drunk—when you gave me that rigmarole about coming back in time, either? I truly thought you’d had too much sun! Now, give it to me again, slowly. You don’t actually have a time machine hidden away somewhere, you simply came here _on a dragon_ , from…?’

Sea'n expanded his explanation this time, telling of a flight through time on the dragon called Sammath. His description of their near miss over the volcano was pretty vivid. Jothan shook his head in wonder, still not quite able to accept the whole. 

How come it was so easy for Keela to take time travel so happily in stride? Although, given that she had slept away fifteen years of her infant life—had only just made the cut to risk coldsleep, in fact—and was still only thirteen now, why would Sea'n traveling through time faze her? 

Even if it did span a heck of a lot more years. Aboard a dragon.

Put it like that, and it didn’t sound so impossible after all. And that dragon—size apart—hadn’t looked so much different from the bronze fire-lizards Jothan had seen. That was a point…

‘How in tarnation did your folks manage to breed up the fire-lizards into such honking great dragons?’ he asked.

By his face, Sea'n was more than a bit insulted. ‘I have never heard of such a thing!’ he snapped. Then, perhaps remembering he had asked for help, he added more calmly, ‘We do not even _have_ fire-lizards—I had never seen one before I came here. I was most surprised to see them flock around Sammath.’

‘Maybe the smaller form died out over the years?’ Jothan suggested. Privately he thought they probably fell prey to the big ones, but he wasn’t going to say so out loud.

‘In our time, they’re pretty common,’ Keela said helpfully. ‘We found them here, though—we didn’t bring them with us.’

‘So,’ said Jothan—he would get to the bottom of the dragon/time travel thing later. Possibly. For right now, Sea'n had come seeking help, and just he might be able to provide it. ‘What’s wrong with your dragons—what do you need a medic for? Though I have to say it’s more likely a vet you’re after.’

What Sea'n described sounded like pretty serious problems with fertility. Serious for folks who actually _wanted_ to breed more dragons, anyway. 

‘So to sum up, your queen dragons have stopped laying as generously as they normally would. Of the eggs they lay, not all will hatch. And their riders—’ Jothan shook his head at the thought of people _riding_ on _dragons_ —this, he had to see for himself one of these days, ‘—their riders are behaving completely out of character, presumably due to the same…’ he wiggled his free hand, ‘…condition…whatever. And you say they’re all but one affected this way?’ 

‘Of the breeding queens, all except Frideth, Elijah’s queen,’ Sea'n confirmed. ‘Also, there are two queens beyond the age of breeding, and four who have not yet risen to mate. None of their riders shows any sign of the disorder—as yet,’ he added heavily. ‘We have no way of knowing if Gilanth, Toranith, Olenth or Palanth may clutch as freely and successfully as Frideth, who is dam to each of them. No other queen has safely hatched a daughter. Only one other queen egg has been laid in turns and it too failed.’ 

‘You brought samples from all of them, breeding or not?’

Sea'n nodded. ‘Ichor from the dragons, blood from the riders—also from some of the women of the Weyr who do not ride dragons, in case comparing them may also tell something of the sickness.’

‘Hmm.’ Jothan tapped his forefinger rhythmically on the steering yoke while he considered the problem. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘It certainly falls within my area of expertise—’ he broke off, seeing Sea'n had no idea what the words meant. 

‘It’s the kind of thing I know how to do in our livestock,’ he explained, ‘though I must point out that I know exactly zilch about dragons. The job would be a heck of a lot easier in animals whose innards I already understand. We have data on fire-lizards, though, and they do at least _look_ similar. I’ll give it my best shot for you—can’t say fairer than that!’

‘Thank you,’ Sea'n said, and Jothan could see the huge relief, right there under the puzzlement on his face. ‘I have marks,’ he added, ‘though I do not know if they will be enough.’

‘Marks?’

‘With which to repay you for your labor, and for the remedy if you can make one.’ 

‘Ah, you mean like credits. We reckon how much a thing or a service is worth in credits. I don’t think we could use your marks, though I’d like to see them. Don’t worry, I’ll still help anyway, if I can,’ Jothan said reassuringly, seeing Sea'n’s expression tense up again. He waved away any further attempt at thanks and directed Sea'n’s attention instead to the wide variety of buildings now coming into sight. 

‘This is where I work,’ he said as they cruised to a halt outside the multi-sectioned labs he shared with the various other specialists that lived and worked here. ‘Mostly on livestock problems that are likely a whole lot easier to solve than yours!’ he added.

Once out of the skimmer Keela gestured over to the east of the complex for Sea'n’s benefit. ‘Our house is back that way,’ she told him. ‘Dad, shall we have time for Sea'n to visit before we bring him back to Sammath?’

‘I doubt it, honey. We have a full case of samples to deal with first—and don’t you want a swim before we have to come home again? School tomorrow, remember—though I have to admit I want a closer look at that dragon!’

Keela loudly sighed, but Sea'n was not attending to either of them, only staring almost open-mouthed at what was about the size a large village, back on Old Earth.

‘I was expecting things in your time to be different,’ he said. ‘I had not thought they would be so very different! There are many people here, too?’ He sounded worried by the possibility.

‘A fair few,’ Jothan agreed, ‘though not many of them around today on account of it’s a Restday.’ 

He was not too surprised that Sea'n would stare—whatever his home town looked like, it was unlikely to resemble this motley collection of prefabricated buildings. It was perhaps a little odd that he would worry how many people lived and worked here. Well, maybe his folk lived in really small communities or something, and he wasn’t used to—though if they all had dragons for transport, they’d surely— 

He was surprised when Sea'n suddenly seized his arm. 

‘Jothan!’ he said urgently. ‘All these people—they must not know how or why I am here! Only those who _must_ , can know!’

‘Why ever not?’ Jothan was looking forward to shocking a few people with Sammath’s size—with his existence at all—and here was Sea'n spoiling his fun. To say nothing of the myriad questions he made no doubt would be asked once they met Sea'n himself—there were enough bubbling up in his own mind already. Questions not only about his time-traveling dragon, but even more about his people there in the future—what they should or shouldn’t do here for the best, and had they maybe taken the lower tech thing a bit _too_ seriously, and—

Sea'n’s solemn voice interrupted speculations that were growing by the second. 

‘The sudden appearance of a great bronze dragon—the like of which has never been seen here before—would be far more than a nine days’ wonder among your people. No matter if he came from the future or not, he would be remembered to the ending of the world. But in my time, there is no record of such a thing—not a song, not a tale, not so much as a mumbled whisper—not anywhere on Pern. I must ask you—and you too, Keela, if you please—to keep our presence here a secret known only to as few people as possible. If you are yourself able to find a solution to the Scourge for us, Jothan, then no-one else should know—not ever.’

It needed very little thought to know that Sea'n was quite right. No-one who had seen that gigantic bronze dragon could ever forget it. _He_ wouldn’t—was looking forward to a closer look, in fact, if the beast was safe to approach. But Sea'n said there was neither memory nor memoire in his time, and he would know.

Besides, wasn’t there that Grandfather paradox thing—that if you went back and accidentally killed an ancestor you would cease to exist in your own time? Not that he thought Sea'n would, but even less drastic actions than that might have wide-ranging implications for him and his people in their future. 

Jothan sighed. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘I hate to admit it because I know an awful lot of folk who’d like to meet and speak with you, but we can’t risk it. We’re going to have to be real careful we don’t do something that would alter the future between our time and yours. Even a small difference now might change your world out of all recognition—maybe so much that you’d never find it again.’ 

Sea'n looked so stricken, Jothan realized it might have been more tactful not to say that last part out loud—and how would they identify such a difference anyway?

Keela definitely thought his speculation went too far. She leaned through the gap between the seats to glare at him and then turned to smile reassuringly at Sea'n. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’m good at secrets, and I won’t tell anyone. Dad won’t, either!’ 

That last was aimed right at Jothan, her frown clearly adding an _or else_. He hastily agreed. Fierce loyalty was one of the things he most admired in his younger daughter.

‘No real need to hide you, though,’ he said. ‘Keela and I thought you were one of the traveling folk, and so will anyone else who sees you. It’s unlikely any of the team will be in or around the labs today, and another time, if somebody asks, we just tell them your people have staked land over Paradise River way, and you’ve come to me for help with your breeding stock—which has the advantage of being _half_ true, at least.’ 

Between them, they hefted the crate out of the skimmer. ‘Feels heavier now than when we loaded it!’ said Jothan, breathing hard as they maneuvered it down the corridor to his lab. ‘Did you use rope or what, to shift it from the beach to the cave, on your own?’ 

‘I dragged it on a spare hide,’ said Sea'n, obviously more concerned by the damp that showed at one corner. It wasn’t actually dripping, but who knew what may be going on inside? 

‘I didn’t expect to find help right away when we landed. The idea was to store it in the ice cavern Telgar uses for preserving food, way up north, and then start looking. The volcano caused too much damage to Sammath’s wings to go anywhere, though. He’ll not be flying at all for a while, and the only thing I could do instead was keep the box out of the sun in the cave by the stream.’

‘Frozen solid and double boxed, in ice chips and then packed tight all round with sawdust, you said?’ 

Sea'n nodded as Jothan released the straps that held the lid in place. When he lifted it, the sawdust gave off a definite coolness.

‘And you’ve been here…?’ 

‘Two full days. We landed at night and this is the morning of our third day. I did some exploring, but having to go on foot means I cannot go very far in any direction, even with Sammath to keep me from straying. He already knew there were no Weyrs, and no dragons he could call on for help—he just did not know where to find people. I thought there _was_ no-one, until I found the flags and a pile of stakes somebody must intend for something. I just hoped that person would come back soon—and here you both are, for which I am truly grateful!’

Jothan only hmmed absently, his attention more on scooping out tightly packed sawdust. ‘I’m wondering if all the years between our two times will count against us here. Frozen whole blood is normally good for a decade or more, but I suspect you’ve come a heck of a lot further back than that. Well, we can only hope. _You_ haven’t aged, anyway—at least, I assume you always looked like this?’ And maybe, he thought, it was a bit like the coldsleep conundrum—which he was not going to worry about now, if ever.

He grinned at Sea'n and went on, ‘So, maybe they’ll be okay, too. In which case, and from what I remember of archaic food preservation techniques—not all that much, really, I admit—I think your samples should be fine. We’ll soon see…’

They were both scooping now, fingers chilled by the sawdust as they dropped it in the bin Keela held for them. They had to dig deep even to find the inner box, and deeper still to finally extract it. Water was seeping very slowly from the bottom. 

When they prized it open however, only the chips of ice around the edges were beginning to melt, and even the outside rows of samples were still solid. Sea'n gave a very obvious sigh of relief.

‘Looking good!’ Jothan said, and then, ‘Fardles! Some of ’em’s _green_!’

‘Dragon ichor _i_ s green,’ said Sea'n, equally surprised by his surprise.

Jothan barked a laugh at himself. ‘It’s just—I know you said ‘ichor’, but I’ve kept on thinking 'blood', and I just expected—stupid, I guess. Should’ve known it’d be different!’ 

‘Meretin—our Weyrhealer—said to bring two from every queen and her rider, in case one was spilled or spoiled. There are just a couple from female green-riders and their dragons, in case there might be differences in them that you should know about, though the chewing of firestone renders the greens themselves infertile. Those there,’ Sea'n indicated a row with labels tied around with blue thread, not black, ‘are from women who do not ride dragons. Some are still candidates, hoping to Impress, others are past the usual age for it, or simply women of our Weyr. Elijah thought there may be significant differences among them, too.’ 

The name had come up more than a few times during Sea'n’s explanations.

‘Elijah sounds like a smart guy!’ Jothan said, and Sea'n’s smile in return—proud and wistful at once—confirmed what he suspected already—that Sea'n had a male partner, and he missed him. Maybe it was Elijah he was thinking about, the odd time or two Jothan caught him fleetingly still, his eyes unfocused.

Setting up a basic data file took a while, but Jothan didn’t feel a need to apologize for boring his visitor. Sea'n slowly wandered around the lab, subjecting almost everything to intense scrutiny, though he was too sensibly cautious to touch. Keela provided what explanations she could for the banks of equipment and machines necessary to a well-appointed lab. Who knew what a man—clearly, by his clothes, from a society whose _lower technological level_ had regressed quite some way further than the Charter originally intended—would make of a high-tech lab as interpreted for him by a thirteen year old of no real scientific bent?

Jothan shook his head and turned back to the job at hand. He needed to be sure all relevant information was included, and more complex data fields were needed than the simple notation of name, age and breeding status. 

For a start, the labels individuated a rider first by her dragon and its color, then by her Weyr—the dragon by color, rider and Weyr affiliation. There would be time later to find out exactly what constituted a Weyr. Also, Sea'n had mentioned that a good many of them were dam and daughter. This was information the labels did not include and which—who knew?—might turn out to be a pertinent factor. He had to call on Sea'n for that, cross-referencing maternal links into a separate field.

Aside from the queens and their riders, there were a couple of green-rider/dragon samples and a few candidates to differentiate from—what was it?—weyr-folk. These all came from the one Weyr called Telgar—which, apparently, was where Sea'n lived…had lived… _would_ live. Whatever.

With the form set out to his satisfaction, Keela took over at the terminal to record the actual data. He and Sea'n would deal with the samples. Jothan noted Sea'n’s surprise that she was trusted to touch the strange machine whose use he clearly couldn’t fathom at all, much less what made it work. He could not know just how much education these days was provided via keyboard and liquid-crystal display screen. 

The label on each tube was a small, neatly cut strip of thin hide. Presumably paper was a costly artifact back then—or maybe that should be _forward_ then? They were written by someone called Candessa, Sea'n said, in an ink they had found indelible. Her script was small and crabbed and Jothan doubted he’d have gotten any of the names right if he’d tried to decipher them himself. 

Sea'n read them out quickly enough once he saw Keela knew what she was doing—far better than he could possibly understand why tapping on lettered squares in one place should make the names he spelled out for her appear on the lighted screen in front of them. 

He was clearly impressed by how each letter looked exactly the same no matter how many times it appeared. He was totally awed when—as Keela completed each entry—the printer spit out an adhesive label for the tubes of that name.

‘Is all writing done by hand in your time—you don’t even have printing presses for books and record-keeping?’ Jothan asked with a frown. Sea'n’s puzzled face gave him his answer—and _that_ that was going back even beyond the Middle Ages of Old Earth! 

‘Way back in our history,’ he said, ‘when people realized how much could go wrong with hand-copying, they carved letters—making them much easier to read than script—and pressed them onto paper to make words. Only really special books and scrolls were handwritten after that.’ 

He waved a hand in dismissal. A barebones explanation could mean little to Sea'n, and this was neither the time nor the place for an in-depth lesson in typography. They had more urgent matters at hand.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **End Notes** :  
> 1\. I realize it is hyper-convenient that Jothan should be a microbiologist, but that ought not to be too much of a stretch if Dragonsdawn readers can accept head zoologist Pol Nietro and botanist Ted Tubberman metamorphosing into geneticists suddenly capable of complex bio-engineering… :-)  
> 2\. The age anomaly always sort of pricked at me in Dragonsdawn. Were those who undertook the five year watches to man the ships through the journey to Pern physically five (or ten) years older than the bulk of the colonists when they emerged from coldsleep? Thus, was Sorka actually more like thirty two than seventeen the first time she and Sean made love?  
> 3\. Why doesn’t chewing firestone make fire-lizard queens infertile as it does the green dragons?  
> 4\. Do I overthink these things??


	34. Concerning Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…self-replicating, low tech, high speed transport—with built in comm units…_

‘Meretin—our healer—has racks that look a little like these,’ said Sea'n, relieved there were at least _some_ objects in this strange place whose use he could recognize.

His allotted task was repetitive enough that he could think occasional reassurance to Sammath, so many clicks away that Sea'n was foolishly relieved to hear his drowsy replies—as if there were anything that could harm a full-grown dragon. But, a rider did not leave his dragon. Sea'n had never been so far from Sammath before and it pulled at something deep inside.

It was necessary. He could do it.

He read aloud the details of each sample for Keela to tap out on her letter board, while Jothan wiped the tubes free of damp and sawdust particles, and attached the easier-to-read labels as they appeared. The racks he set them in were indeed much like the ones in Meretin’s dispensary.

‘Except for the part where you can’t actually see through his, being made of wood,’ he added with a grin.

‘Transparent molded plastic.’ Jothan waved a hand over them in an explanation that explained nothing whatever to Sea'n. They served the same need and their making was unimportant here. At least there seemed to be an almost unending supply, unlike Meretin’s which must be hoarded like the precious wooden artifacts they were. 

As soon as each was filled Jothan transferred it, samples and all, to the place Sea'n thought of as an indoor ice cavern and Jothan called the freezer, logically enough. Jothan had set a single rack to slowly thaw, in what he called a refrigerator—a merely cool place.

When they were done at last Sea'n had one question above all.

‘I understand that all these things are the tools of your craft.’ He waved a hand over the box shapes in various sizes that all seemed to have completely different uses. Like the letter board and the place it made its letters appear, which Keela said was a terminal, and the one that produced labels faster and more clearly than Candessa could ever hope to do. Like the cooling and freezing places—one big enough to walk into, the other waist high—and the many other unfamiliar things around the room.

‘But, what makes them work, when there are neither bellows nor cranks visible—and no apprentices to turn them, either? Your lighting comes on at the wave of a hand or the flick of fingers—even glows in elongated baskets could not do as much without someone to open them, so how do they give light?’

On their way back to the skimmer, Sea'n learned that Jothan’s people had developed ways to take the heat of the sun and produce the mysterious electricity that provided such bright lights. Somehow, it also powered most of their machines, it heated water, cooked food, could warm or cool a home at will—there seemed to Sea'n to be no end to its many uses. 

In exchange, Jothan wanted to know how Sea'n’s time managed such matters—or did not—without such power. Though this was really the province of the MasterSmith, Sea'n answered as best he could. The harnessing of wind, wheels or water seemed to him such a commonplace return for the unseen marvel the O'Briens took for granted.

The journey back to the cove passed quickly enough, and not only because there was so much in their lives to compare and contrast. Sea'n could feel the connection with his dragon—cool emptiness inside that warmed and filled with every klick. 

Along the way he also discovered that 'Landing' in this time meant two different things, neither of which touched on dragons. The first was simply a place—a center for supply, learning and various other activities. Jothan’s description made Sea'n think of the Harper Hall, a little. 

The second…

‘Everyone? _Truly_?’ It was Sea'n’s turn to disbelieve. 

‘Truly. Thousands of the people, many of the animals and a good number of the plants we grow, all came here in three huge—’ Jothan paused, ‘well, I guess you would think of them as flying ships. My family and I started out from a star called Earth, which is farther away than any of the stars in Pern’s sky. Most of the equipment, too—machines, our first housing units—in fact, you name it, we probably brought at lest some of it with us! We measure our years from the date we landed—hence…’ the pause this time was to let Keela chime in. 

‘ _Landing!’_ they chorused.

And Jothan had boggled at _dragons?_

Father and daughter both rushed into explanation, detail and clarification, tripping over each other’s words at times in the effort to be helpful, and sadly only succeeded in confusing Sea'n the more. _In vitro_ , for example, remained as mystifying even after their lively duet. Sea'n soon realized Jothan could almost rival Keela’s rapidly lilting speech, when he too was caught up in his telling. 

Their own infinitely less complex landing back at the cove was thus something of a reprieve. The skimmer came to ground on the beach itself this time, though Sea'n noted that Jothan brought it down a cautious way from Sammath. 

_I told you all would be well!_ Sammath’s welcome had a definite smirk to it.. 

Despite all reassurances Sea'n breathed more freely for seeing the big bronze shape stretched out just as indolently as when he left. Knowing his dragon for the biggest and potentially most fearsome thing on Pern had made no difference at all. He had been injured, and this was the longest—in time and distance both—that the two of them had been apart since Impression. Relief easily trumped logic.

_You did indeed—and may be well for the queens, too, I hope. Jothan is not a healer but he possesses the skills we need and has promised his aid._

_Will it be soon?_

_How long matters little, for now. We cannot leave until your wings are healed enough to withstand the cold dark of_ between _, and that may take time._

In truth, Sammath’s widespread but fairly minor scorching was healing already, as fast and as well as could be hoped. Not so the peppering of small holes in his wing membrane, worse still the places where they clustered into bigger hurts, that Sea'n had supported with cloth and numbweed to enable them to heal at all. Those would take far longer, and even when they had knit together once more, it would be longer than that before Sea'n would expose tender new skin to the rigors of _between._

While Sea'n spoke with Sammath, Jothan approached the dragon, his eyes opening very wide. ‘Fardles! He must have come out of a big egg! Where on Pern did you find that?’

‘You do not _find_ dragon eggs,’ said Sea'n, rather shocked. ‘The queen lays and tends to her clutch on the sands of the hatching ground, in the Weyr where she lives.’

‘Yes—what’s a weyr?’ Keela wanted to know. ‘You said it was a place where the dragons live but you never explained exactly what a weyr _is_ , or what it looks like.’ 

‘A Weyr is home to many dragons and their riders. They are mostly quite similar, and very big, of course—huge spaces hollowed deep into the rock of a mountain cone. Within, mostly at ground level, there are many caverns and smaller spaces we share with the weyrfolk, for all the daily tasks of living. But each dragon and rider pair also has its own small weyr—like a cave within a cave—row upon row of them around the Bowl, right to the top. 

‘You start off way up there as a junior rider and move down when—’ he paused abruptly, remembering the most usual reason for room to occur in the lower tiers; he didn’t really want to share that with Keela, ‘—as you and your dragon grow. There are—at least, in _my_ time, there are,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘six Weyrs, each filled with hundreds of dragons and their riders, and many weyrfolk besides.’

‘Whoooa!’ Keela said, dragging out the word. She looked from the fire-lizards splayed indolently on Sammath’s back to the length and breadth of Sammath himself, stretched wide over sand and water, and back again. ‘I bet they blot out the whole sky when they take off all at once!’ The thought held her silent for a moment but then, as Sea'n knew they would, the questions came bubbling out.

‘Do real dragons impress the way fire-lizards do, by feeding them when they hatch? And how come you give them all names that end in 'th'? There wasn’t a single one that didn’t, when I entered them in the database—is there some sort of rule that says you have to do that? Can just anybody have a dragon in your time, like we can with fire-lizards, and if they can’t, why not, and who says whose turn it is to get one, anyway? What does Sammath eat—is it always meat or does he eat grass and stuff as well? How big _was_ the egg he came out of, and how long did it take for him to get so huge after that? Sea'n, do you _have_ to—?’

Jothan had stopped staring at Sammath long enough to clap his hand over his daughter’s mouth. ‘Keela! Let the man get a word in edgewise!’

‘Well,’ said Sea'n, wondering which question to start with, ‘no-one ever _gives_ a name to their dragon. He or she hatches from the shell knowing it already. This is Sammath.’

At that moment one great eye opened. It whirled a gentle blue-green, then slowly closed again.

‘And no, not just anyone may Impress a dragon. Candidates are Searched for throughout the lands by other riders and dragons who have a talent for it. Even then, not all those who are brought to a hatching will Impress. When a dragonet breaks shell, he or she is looking for a mind to match with. If such a mind is not found the hatchling may starve to death, for it will feed from no other hand than that of its destined rider.’

‘Really?’ Keela frowned. ‘Our fire-lizards don’t all impress, but they don’t need to. Most of them manage pretty well on their own once they’ve survived the threat of tunnel snakes or wherries at their hatching. I don’t see why a great big dragon wouldn’t.’

‘A hatchling dragon may be almost as big as you, but he is unable to fly for many sevendays. He is about as helpless as a human baby, in fact, though sharp talons and a raging hunger make him far more dangerous.’ Sea'n smiled, recalling Sammath’s desperately wobbling path to find him on the day that changed Sea'n’s life forever.

‘They eat _people_?’ Jothan grabbed for Keela’s hand and tugged her away to stand behind Sea'n.

‘What? No, _never_! They are simply unsteady on their legs to begin with. Candidates only get hurt by accident—if they are caught by flailing talons. It is the one time in a dragon’s life he may ever damage a human, and even then not by intent.’

Keela wriggled forward again. ‘How do you make him do what you want? He’s a whole lot bigger than a pony, and he doesn’t even have a head-collar like Pippin has!’

‘You ask him to…’

_Sammath, would you raise your head a moment, please?_

Sammath lifted his great head from the sand, both eyes whirling, and faster now as he closely regarded the man who had taken and returned his rider. Then he settled back into semi-somnolence, half in, half out of the water.

‘…like that!’ 

‘You asked him to do that?’

‘I didn’t hear you! How did he know to do it?’

‘I asked him in my mind, though of course I could have done it aloud. That is the way he speaks to me, for a dragon has no real voice, only the one in your head.’

‘And that’s how you knew he was called Sammath—he _told_ you?’ Keela seemed quite astonished by that.

‘As I said—Impression is a meeting of minds.’

‘Your minds… _meld_?’ Jothan looked awestruck at the idea. ‘But that’s _way_ beyond mentasynth!’ he added, which meant nothing to Sea'n. 

He nodded, however. ‘You and he are together, your dragon forever a part of you. When you die, he goes _between_ and does not return. If a rider loses his or her dragon, he will most likely also lose the will to live,’ he said somberly.

‘So it’s not like having a fire-lizard, say, or even some huge kind of flying dog—a canine?’ Jothan added when he realized Sea'n was unfamiliar with the word.

‘Like a _canine_? No, _nothing_ like that! Canines do not have minds of their own, nor do they speak to you!’ Sea'n was insulted on Sammath’s behalf. ‘As to your dragonets, I have no idea. We do not have such things.’ 

‘Can they talk to other people too, or only their own rider?’ Keela was clearly hoping that Sammath would address her but that, Sea'n decided, must be his dragon’s choice, not his.

‘A dragon may choose to speak with another person, if he sees the need, though for the most part they rarely do so. Sammath and his mate are unusual in this, for he speaks often to her rider—and she to me, on occasion.’ Sea'n’s smile turned somewhat rueful now. Frideth was not generous in her speech with him. Her remarks were infrequent and tended to be pithy and very much to the point, but when it happened he cherished it for the accolade it was.

‘They understand what you say, not just what you tell them to do?’

‘Of course they understand,’ Sea'n said, still rather nettled.

‘Well, yes, if you say so!’ Jothan gave him a placatory smile. ‘It’s just… Our fire-lizards don’t speak, as such, but they can put images in your mind. They’re as often confusing as they are intelligible, though—half the time you don’t really get what they’re trying to tell you at all. The mentas are better at it so they say, but my two came from ordinary beach-found eggs, not the mentasynth-enhanced kind, so I wouldn’t know. 

‘If mine give me a picture of a place, say, it’s not usually sharp enough to know exactly what they mean by it. Could be that it’s a hot day and there’s a stream nearby for them to splash in. They might be warning me that some of the stock have strayed there to drink—or even that there’re tunnel snakes to watch out for. Maybe it’s just that we had a picnic there once before and they’re hungry again now! You get more from the color of their eyes and how fast they whirl—like Sammath’s there—and even then, you can get the wrong end of the stick they’re poking you with! But this…!’

Jothan shook his head, walked forward, and then stopped, obviously having second thoughts about getting any closer. ‘He _is_ tame, right?’

‘ _Tame?_ ’ 

Sammath snorted, making both Jothan and Keela jump. 

Sea'n himself might have taken further offense, but he needed this man’s help—and anyway, how could Jothan know such things about dragons when they did not exist for him? ‘No, he is not _tame_ , like some spit-turning canine. I already said he will not harm you or anyone. Dragons are dedicated to saving life, not taking it.’

‘Well, hell! That’s some genetic tinkering, right there—just has to be!’ Jothan said admiringly, as he walked the length of Sammath’s left wing and then away backwards for a better overall view. He was clearly taking in every detail as he went. 

‘I always wondered what in blazes we were going to use for transportation once the power packs run out. They do that instantaneous _flit_ ,’ he snapped finger and thumb together, ‘from place to place that fire-lizards do? Well, clearly they do—that’s how you got here, right? Only, through time instead of space.’ He laughed as he said it. ‘Scientists have achieved a whole lot, one way and another, but they never quite mastered time travel—that I heard of, anyway. And yet…here you are!’ He laughed again, and shook his head.

‘That is how we travel, anywhere at all. Holders must go on foot or by cart or runnerbeast, of course, but dragonriders are more fortunate. The journey we just made in your machine was quite quick, but on Sammath it would take no longer than to cough three times—take-off and landing aside. As long as your dragon knows exactly where you want him to go, it takes very little time to get there.’

‘How does he know where to go?’ 

‘You show him, in your mind. A place can look very different from high in the air—which is where you _really_ need your dragon to arrive! So, our young dragons and their riders are trained in reference points by older ones who have been there already, taught by yet older ones, and so on. They must practice diligently, for there is much danger in mistakes. It is all too possible to stay lost _between_. But, as long as you have a clear picture in your mind of where you want to be, your dragon will take you there.’

‘What about places no-one’s ever been before?’ Keela demanded

‘Then most dragons must fly there straight. They can only go _between_ to somewhere they have already seen—in their rider’s mind or in the mind of another dragon. Only an exceptional dragon can take his reference from anywhere else, but that is how Sammath brought us to this time. He flew to a star pattern, carved and inlaid on the inside lid of a box, preserved over many, many turns!’

‘Turns?’

Sea'n circled one hand in the air. ‘A turn—the time from one cold season to the next?’ he said, hoping they would understand.

‘We call that a year,’ Keela put in helpfully. ‘I’m thirteen years old, already!’

She was several turns older than Saben, then, but still almost as much the child.

Jothan was again regarding Sammath in wonder. ‘How does he _do_ that?’

‘How?’ Sea'n laughed. ‘I have no idea. I show him where we need to be, he goes into and out of _between_ , and there we are!’

‘Instantaneous teleportation for man and beast—and all his goods too,’ Jothan said, looking over the tidy stack Sea'n had made of his belongings. He shook his head in wonder. ‘So, what’s _between_?’

‘There is nothing _between_ , only a black, cold emptiness. You see, hear, feel nothing. You hardly know you are a-dragonback, except for his voice in your head. Going from one place to another takes very little time—though it does not seem so, the first time you do it! Coming back from my time to yours took much, much longer. I would have thought we were lost forever but for Sammath’s reassurance.’ He shuddered, the memory of their journey still too close.

Keela shivered too, but Jothan had a different question already. ‘They talk to each other, too, your dragons?’

Sea'n nodded.

Jothan whistled. ‘Self-replicating, low tech, high speed transport—with built in comm units! It’s…it’s…just _unbelievable_!’ His voice was now completely awed. 

It could not be the same, for Jothan had not known dragons even existed until he met Sammath, but Sea'n remembered his own wonder at the moment of Impression.

‘What does he eat?’ Keela asked practically. ‘Is he hungry now?’

‘No,’ Sea'n reassured her, ‘not quite yet! We brought herdbeast carcasses with us, though he has eaten them all since we landed. Flying between times always makes him hungry, but he was ravenous after such a long stay _between_. He ate every single one, so will not need to eat again for several days. After that, I guess I shall have to try and get a wherry or two for him.’

Keela looked shocked. ‘Can’t he catch them for himself?’

‘Of course he can—usually! But you have a grumbling volcano out there,’ Sea'n gestured toward the east. ‘We came out of _between_ and were caught at the edge of the upflow. We went from freezing cold into burning heat with who knows what caught up in it. Luckily we shot upward on the force of it and somehow, hurt as he was, Sammath was able to snatch us away and land here safely. He shouldn’t actually _have_ little holes scattered all over his wings like that, and especially not the bigger ones those cloth patches are holding together.’

‘Owww!’ Her face squinched up in sympathy.

‘We were lucky we were so high up and to the side,’ Sea'n told her. ‘Any lower or nearer and—well, we would not be here now. Dragons heal fast but it will be a sevenday or two before it is safe for him to fly again, and longer still before he can safely go _between_. Until then, I shall just have to hunt for him. I wondered about trying to make some kind of fishnet, too—there are plenty of yellowtails and whitefingers in the bay. It will not be a small task, however, to keep him fed that way!’ 

_I am not hungry again yet but when I am, I shall try not to eat too much,_ Sammath said meekly.

Sea'n gave one bronze shoulder a cheerful thump. _You will eat until you are full, my friend!_ he ordered. _Aside from aiding Jothan in the making of his hold—for the marks we brought are seemingly of no use here and I can repay him in no other way—I shall have little else to do with my time as we wait for him to apply his skills to the task we have set him!_

‘I can maybe help with that,’ said Jothan. ‘Can’t let you have any of our animals—they’re all of them too precious still—but I’ve gotten to be a dab hand with the crossbow we use to hunt wherries. Could probably lend you a fishnet, too. Save you trying to weave one out of vines!’

Sea'n laughed and thanked him. ‘I have a sling but I would have to be really lucky to stun a wherry with it—if I could even find one without Sammath to fly me to the nearest roost. And what else I can bring down with a sling wouldn’t even begin take the edge from Sammath’s appetite!’

‘Fire-lizards’ll help,’ Keela said confidently. ‘I bet if Sammath tells them he’s hungry, they’ll catch fish for him.’

_Will you fish for me, little one?_

Bare moments after Sea'n heard Sammath’s request, a small golden queen burst from _between_ and dropped a yellowtail into the waiting dragon’s mouth.

‘I thank you for your idea, Keela,’ Sea'n said. ‘It will be a great help!’

‘Wow—did he just—? And you’re welcome!’ she said with a grin. ‘Dad, do I still have time for my swim?’

Jothan glanced down at the band on his wrist like the one Keela wore, except that his was less brightly colored. ‘Sorry, honey, time’s getting on. The samples took longer to process that I thought. If we don’t go soon, Cillian will be due back from his sleepover and we’ll not be there to collect him.’ 

Keela pulled a face then turned to Sea'n. ‘We’ll see you again soon, won’t we?’ she asked.

Sea'n had a feeling she was far more anxious to see Sammath again than him. He smiled and said ‘Of course you will. Your father will know before I do when his work is complete and I may go home. And Sammath cannot fly anywhere yet awhile. Fear not—we shall be here when you return!’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	35. Differences

_…a level of functioning he could only think of as medieval…_

Jothan looked over at Keela, impatiently wriggling shotgun beside him. This would have to be a quick visit if they were to be home again not too much later than her bedtime. Or Cillian’s sitter’s—Jothan hadn’t thought it proper to bring a small child along in a skimmer filled with carcasses. Keela, however, had reminded him over and again the past few days that Sammath must be getting really hungry by this time, and he did promise to help Sea'n feed him.

Jothan had always considered skimmered hunting to be a form of cheating, but there was no doubt that speed in the air gave you a heck of an edge over hunting from horseback, which he hadn’t done in quite some time—long enough that his muscles were thanking him already for taking the skimmer instead. His afternoon off was illicit, of course, under cover of a visit to those outlying fields where the most recent product of his skills now grazed—which he did, briefly, to salve his conscience.

By the time he flew back to collect Keela after school, there were four wherries loaded in back already—and thank goodness he’d remembered to lay down sheeting before he left to hunt. This was a passenger skimmer, not a hunting sled. Maybe a sled would have been a better idea—there wasn’t an inch of spare space in the skimmer, with all they were bringing for Sea'n and Sammath.

Two brace of good-sized wherries ought to make one decent meal, at least. Might even be enough to spare a leg for Sea'n to roast over his fire. After these, between the fire-lizards’ fishing and Sea'n with the synthetic net they were also bringing, Sammath should last out until Jothan found time and excuse to hunt again. 

He could lend the crossbow to Sea'n, of course, but it was a skill that needed practice. And trying to track down even the slow-moving wherries without a mount of any kind—be it skimmer, horse _or_ dragon—would be a whole lot of effort for little or no reward, he suspected.

‘You think Sea'n will like having the tent?’ Keela asked. ‘He won’t just think we’re criticizing his shelter?’

Jothan laughed. ‘I shouldn’t think so. He’ll have found out by now that fronds don’t keep out the wet all that well!’ Raoul Mendez had mentioned on comm that a thick sea-mist had closed in on the coast a couple nights ago, condensing into rain more often than not.

‘He used the hides his stuff was wrapped in, too, not just fronds,’ Keela pointed out.

‘But he has a lot of gear to protect—like all those sleeping furs he had rigged around him somehow. They have to be feeling pretty damp by now. The tent is a better idea.’

‘I can’t wait to see his face when it goes up. I can do it, right, Dad? Please?’

‘Sure thing,’ Jothan said. Keela wasn’t the only one looking forward to Sea'n’s astonishment when the air-beamed tent shot up from the ground at the flick of a switch. Although, maybe he should just mention…

‘Honey, if Sea'n gets scared by it, you mustn’t laugh. You have to try and remember all the things he simply cannot know about at all. We’re used to a whole lot of gadgets and gizmos to make our lives easier but are literally incredible to someone who’s always had to do everything by hand. We know they’re mostly just applied technology—to Sea'n they probably look like good old-fashioned magic!’

‘'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic',’ she quoted, giving him a beaming smile and a firmly zipped mouth. 

He grinned back and thought that, as much as they were showing Sea'n the many things that were new to him in their world, he was giving them a whole lot back. Both Keela and he had already learned more about dragons and life in the weirdly-named Weyrs than any one in this time—or any database, anywhere else in the entire FSP—could possibly know. 

And for Jothan as a geneticist, Sea'n and Sammath between them had opened up a whole new field of study. The ongoing routine of blood checks and minor adjustments for the flocks and herds of the three contiguous stakes had begun to pall a while back. 

He still had credits to earn for the work he was actually paid for, and he dutifully continued to analyze and assess, identify and correct, as necessary. Having righted most of the deficiencies he was hired for, however, such tasks had become boringly repetitive. Both his contract and his usefulness here were coming to an end. 

His feet had already started to itch, so close now to the time for moving out to the place he and the kids would make their own. Sea'n’s problem was exactly the fillip Jothan needed to make lab work interesting—even fascinating—again until then. 

Even this was a repetitive process to begin with. From his dozens of samples, there were slides to prepare, properties to be analyzed and annotated, comparisons to be drawn between and within. Tests to perform and notations to be made of even the minutest variations. And every now and then he had to stop and wonder at the fact that these samples came from people—and _dragons_ —that wouldn’t even be _born_ for hundreds of years, yet. 

It was a bit of a downer, knowing that even if he managed to produce the miracle cure Sea'n had come so far through time to seek, Jothan would never know if he had actually succeeded. He would never get to see it work for them—but there was no way he was volunteering to go forward with Sea'n, just to find out. He was pretty sure he would not adapt to a pre-industrial society one half as well as Sea'n coped with being here.

To say there had been so few people about the day he brought Sea'n to the labs, the newcomer’s presence had definitely not gone unnoticed. Visitors to the stake were always a focus of interest, and a completely new face even more so. Rumor was quickly spread by the one or two who actually caught a sight of him, and Jothan had been amused by the number of elaborately casual questions he’d fielded, particularly from the younger and as yet unattached female residents. 

From what Jothan knew, such questioners were doomed to disappointment, but Sea'n’s preference was not his to tell.

As little as he may intend or wish to, Sea'n definitely stood out from the general run of colonists, and not only in his clothing—its singular construction and earth-toned colors quite conspicuous beside the light and often shiny fabrics that were the norm here. His easy stance somehow exuded a quiet competence at odds with the hurried—almost harried—demeanor of Jothan’s fellow-workers. 

Well, if he too could control a massive dragon with no more than a thought, Jothan reckoned he might radiate that same inner confidence, himself.

It was not long, of course, before Henrik Holstrom himself dropped by, wanting to know who was the strangely-attired stranger loose on his stake. Jothan brought out his bare-bones explanation—one of the traveling folk had come seeking help with a problem among their breeding stock. 

He may also have implied—never outright stating it as fact—that Sea'n was an acquaintance to whom he owed a personal favor. Unused to so many strangers, however, he was camping out at Jothan’s own stake to await results—though Jothan was careful not to share that particular item of information with anyone else. 

Henrik was sympathetic if not particularly concerned, once Jothan assured him that the stock in question was nowhere close to his own—way out in central Kahrain and nearer to the Paradise River Hold, was the impression Jothan gave without ever actually saying so. Henrik fortunately assumed—and Jothan was careful not to contradict—that the problem affected only horses, in which he had not much interest being wholly devoted to his flocks of sheep and, especially, his steadily-increasing herds of cattle. 

As long as Jothan was also working in the best interests of _his_ beasts, Henrik was benevolent enough to let him use the lab to solve the traveler’s difficulty, too. His acceptance of the stranger should head off undue inquisitiveness among Jothan’s colleagues. Among the young women of the stake it might be a different thing altogether, especially if… _when…_

It was inevitable Roisin would show up sooner or later, Jothan feared, though there was no sense borrowing that trouble yet awhile. He could play the heavy-handed dad if he had to. 

For the rest of the lab staff, it was quite fortunate that the stake’s botanists, Mel Carnier and Sondra Brookes, were hosting a grasslands seminar for their botanist colleagues, sometime in the near future. Jothan suspected that for most of the attendees it may be more in the nature of a vacation from their assigned stakes, but at least the imminent gathering set the two residents—and anyone else in the labs who didn’t look busy enough to escape co-option—in a whirl of activity designed to impress the impending visitors.

The one snag they had run into, apparently, was Ted Tubberman’s attitude. He was the only member of the original team that refused to take part. He seemed to think he should have the leading of it, Mel said, and that was just not on. Staying clear of that little contretemps was another reason for Jothan to be glad of the challenge Sea'n had brought him.

Keela broke into his train of thought. ‘Do you think Sea'n will mind his camp being at our stake instead of on the beach with Sammath?’ 

‘I think he’ll understand it’s safer to have it there. I had to ask around to borrow all this gear. It’s not likely anyone will come by, but if they did, they’d expect to see it right by where we’re going to build. In that case, we—and Sea'n—shall have to keep them from wandering out to the cove and noticing there just happens to be a dragon on the beach! It’s lucky the blue finnies are shoaling like mad, east of Monaco Bay, and few if any fishing boats are sailing out our way right now.’

‘We can’t have them coming where they’ll see Sammath!’ Keela said, shocked. ‘You _have_ to find a cure real quick, Dad.’

‘It’s not as easy as that, you know, Kee! I’ve a heck of a lot of analysis still to do before we even get to that stage.’

‘Wouldn’t it be quicker if you had somebody to help you?’

‘Yes, of course it would, but how could I explain—much less justify—asking for an assistant when my own job here is almost over? I can do this for Sea'n, it’ll just take a little longer. I’ve already gotten to the stage where I need samples for comparison,’ Jothan said.

‘Samples? But—oh, you mean from Sea'n and Sammath!’

‘Yeah—and I’m not at all sure I fancy the idea of sticking a fardling great needle into a dragon! Or even the tiniest one into Sea'n if Sammath’s watching!’

‘Don’t be silly, Dad! You can’t hurt Sammath—and he _won’t_ hurt you!’ He could tell Keela was trying not to laugh. She had to squash her lips together for a minute or two before she could say, ‘Really, he won’t. Dragons give their lives to protect people and would never harm one on purpose. Sea'n says so and I believe him.’ She was very serious now.

‘I know that, honey. It’s more the thought of it, you know? Next to Sammath, I feel about as tall as Cillian!’

When Keela nodded understandingly, he added. ‘I don’t even know exactly how we do it—or where, come to that. I just hope Sea'n does!’

‘Look—there they are!’

Sea'n was little bigger than a stick figure against the white sand, but no-one could miss the large, bronzy protrusion that had sprung up there in the cove. Other skimmers flying overhead were pretty unlikely, but inquisitive fisherfolk couldn’t be entirely ruled out, Jothan thought worriedly, hoping the blue finnies would continue to shoal for weeks yet. Maybe from way out at sea, Sammath would look like some weird rock formation?

He nodded to Keela, who tapped a quick burst on the klaxon to let Sea'n know they were coming in to land. The stick figure waved a greeting and soon enough Jothan brought the skimmer down by him on the beach. 

Keela flung back the canopy as they came to rest. ‘Did you think we’d forgotten you?’ she called.

‘No, indeed,’ said Sea'n, ‘but I am very glad to see you again!’

‘We brought wherries for Sammath _—four_ of them! Dad went hunting while I was in school, and we came right out here after, so they’re pretty fresh.’

‘We are both most grateful to you, Jothan. The fire-lizards are very willing, though what they bring is barely enough to keep Sammath from the pangs of hunger—and he is not used to quite so much fish! His wings are healing well, however, and I am hopeful he may fly again soon.’

Keela dived back into the skimmer and brought out a tangle of bright red synnet. ‘Ta-dah!’ she said and, when Sea'n looked puzzled, added, ‘It’s proper fishing net. Looks small like this, I know, but it’s bigger than you think when you stretch it out—and a whole lot stronger! I bet if you hold one end and Sammath the other out below the headland there, and then Sammath sweeps his tail through the water toward it, you’ll likely catch enough to feed the both of you!’

‘That’s the idea, anyhow,’ Jothan said with a laugh, as he and Sea'n began to haul the carcasses out of the skimmer and set them before Sammath. 

The dragon had raised his head, interested from the first, and his eyes began to whirl with the red of hunger, yet he did not eat. 

‘Doesn’t he want them?’ Keela asked, sounding hurt that Sammath would turn down their offering. 

Jothan felt a bit that way himself. ‘They’re fresh—not much more than a couple of hours old, anyway. I wouldn’t palm him off with stuff that’s started to stink!’

‘Believe me, he really does want them, but right now he’s reminding me that even weyrfolk can be upset by the sight of a dragon feeding. It's a little… messy!’ Sea'n added with a grin. ‘We should leave him to it!’

‘Oh, right,’ Jothan said, grateful for an explanation that made his gift acceptable, and he hurried back to the skimmer. ‘Well, we have a load of other stuff, too, on the back seat here. Camping gear. It’ll be easier to fly than carry it back to the meadow—you want a lift?’

‘We’ll walk,’ Keela said, her back resolutely turned on the sudden squelchy, tearing sounds. She led Sea'n in the direction of their meadow as Jothan set the skimmer in motion for the short hop.

The equipment they had brought was quickly unloaded and set to one side of the spot chosen for the tent. Jothan tactfully hid his smile at Keela’s disappointment when Sea'n took only a single pace back from the tent rising slowly—almost majestically—from the ground, seemingly on its own. Certainly he was surprised at first—startled, even—but he was not scared by the sight, as Jothan had half-suspected he might be.

Sea'n sent a grin his way, instead. ‘I have already witnessed too many of the wonders you can make happen with your tech-no-lo-gy,’ he carefully pronounced the word Jothan had given him to describe those wonders, ‘to worry over-much at a new one. And, if it were dangerous at all, you would assuredly not permit Keela to stand so close!’ With another grin, he shook his head. ‘I could foresee a tremendous saving of labor, were this possible in my time—gather tents can be many times this size and a great deal heavier. They take a great deal of time and the effort of many people to erect!’ 

‘The best kinds of technology simply make life easier for us poor striving humans!’ Jothan said. 

‘'Gadgets and gizmos',’ Keela quoted back at him, nodding wisely. 

Most of the gear was straightforward enough—a few folding chairs, a table, several sleeping mats—and quickly installed. The burners did impress Sea'n, when Keela demonstrated how fast a pan of water could be boiled using what looked like a flat metal plate. He listened, polite as ever, to her explanation of how tiny solarcells worked that particular device, though Jothan knew it was politeness alone. 

He would heed the instructions for recharging, however. Jothan had quickly realized that when it came to practicalities, you showed Sea'n a thing once and he rarely had to be told twice, no matter how far from his experience to begin with. 

He may never understand the level of sophistication Jothan’s people had reached in so many areas—and true understanding might take the rest of his life and still be incomplete. And anyway, most of the folk Jothan knew used their many gadgets and gizmos every day and yet hadn’t a clue how they worked. Like Sea'n here, they didn’t need to—they didn’t need _how does it work?_ only _how do I make it work for me?_

The thought made Jothan wonder about those in Sea'n’s time who did need to understand how their lower grade technology worked. ‘How is knowledge disseminated—spread,’ he amended at Sea'n’s blank look, ‘in your time?’

‘That depends on the knowledge and on the one who is to learn. Our earliest teaching is done by harpers—’

‘Harpers? Guys who play on a _harp_?’ Jothan couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice. ‘What do they have to say to anything?’ Harpists these days were simply entertainers—and had even _one_ of them joined the Pern expedition?

‘You do not have harpers?’ Sea'n sounded equally disbelieving. ‘Who then teaches the young their duty and obedience? Who preserves Pern’s history and teaches it to those who do not read? Who arbitrates its disputes and guards its justice? Every harper has some skill in music, but his value goes far beyond his ability to play on harp or drum!’

‘Your harpers do all that? Well, yes,’ Jothan said on reflection, ‘I suppose in your time, they could.’ It was true that quite richly diverse cultures on Earth had relied almost exclusively on oral tradition, long after symbolic accounting had opened the way to text.

‘Yet not in yours—why is that?’

‘Mostly because we have so many more things to _be_ known—just as we possess so many actual things that you do not. Concepts like duty and obedience are primarily the responsibility of parents. For arbitration, for justice, we have a council. But the main body of our knowledge is held for us inside our computers, and every child is taught to access it at need—everyone can read, you see. Yours, I gather, is learned by rote—memorized, right? 

Sea'n nodded. ‘The most basic matters, yes. Only those apprenticed to a particular craft are taught its secrets.’

‘And that’s how come your medics—healers—have lost so much, isn’t it? Valuable minds dying before their time and taking with them things that only they know?’

‘That has happened too often—not only in the healing craft, but others, too. Imperfect recollections are passed down until even the sense of them is lost.’

‘You do have books, though?’

‘We do, but they are large and unwieldy, unlike yours, and are seen only by those who need the knowledge within—and the words your terminals show are far easier to read! Our most important matters—Weyr, Hold and Craft records—are set down in these books. They are scribed mainly by trained harpers, on skins that have been finely cured—and added to by many different harpers through the turns. Less vital information is often recorded on scrolls. It must be admitted that such scribing is not always legible, depending on the skill of the one who wrote each page, and how long ago it was written!’

‘You don’t even keep manuals?’ When Sea'n looked mystified once more, he added, ‘Books that contain the practical information the student of a specific discipline needs, ones that can be shared around. Of medicine, say—your healing—or metal-working, or—or dragon-riding, even!’

‘Crafts are taught by their craftmasters, and knowledge is passed down from one to the next. But each craft keeps its secrets closely guarded, and I doubt some of the older masters ever trust their journeymen with all that they know. In the Weyrs, the weyrlings learn much of what they need to know of dragons and their care from the Weyrling-master and from the Weyrhealer, until they actually fly Thread. Then, you learn the hard way!’ His smile was rueful. Sea'n clearly knew that difference all too well. 

‘Dragonriders keep no ‘manuals’ as such, unless each Weyrwoman’s records of matings, hatchings and Impressions count. If other crafts possess them, even their existence is well-hidden from those who have no business knowing.’ 

Jothan shook his head. ‘They can’t be complete, anyway, if your healers have lost as much as you say. And right there is the answer to why they’re needed—with or without the ability to print.’

He tried not to show it, but he was both saddened and concerned by the modest—even meager—level of culture Sea'n’s future time apparently possessed. Never mind their clothing which, okay, was functional however basic. Even their currency—no, _especially_ their currency…

He could understand they needed physical tokens to exchange, with electronic methods of payment and receipt no longer possible. When Sea'n showed him the marks he brought to repay the ‘healers’ he came back to find, however, Jothan was appalled. They were made of wood, with the denomination merely carved into the surface. 

Maybe it was some special, very rare kind of wood, but even so Sea'n’s time must be a forger’s paradise. It wasn’t Jothan’s place to criticize so he didn’t, aloud, though it worried him all the more.

Could his people—with all the technology, skills and abilities they possessed right now—could they _really_ be reduced to that, one day in the far future? As colonists, they came to Pern with sincere ideals, fully intending to eschew the high-tech societies of the FSP, and to found their own, agriculturally-based society. 

But then, no-one had ever envisioned a catastrophic loss of knowledge that would bring them to a level of functioning he could only think of as medieval.

Jothan made up his mind there and then to speak seriously with the Council as was, and—and—

And _what_ , exactly? 

For Sea'n, it had already happened—and hadn’t they agreed that even small details of his visit, leaked to the general populace of Jothan’s time, might radically influence the future? 

Any attempt whatever, no matter how well meaning, might thwart what hope Sea'n had of returning to the place—and the loved ones—he had left behind.  
[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	36. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_… I really don’t like to think of you all alone in a strange place..._

It was a little unusual that Keela didn’t tag along with her father to the Cove to collect Sea'n, next Restday. Always enthralled by Sammath, she would dash off to speak with him no matter how fleeting the visit.

It was more unusual still that she didn’t come meet the skimmer as it landed by Jothan’s work place. Sea'n half-expected her to rush up to him, full as ever of exuberant welcome. When she didn’t, he simply had to ask.

Jothan grinned. ‘No, she’s fine. In fact, she stayed home working on something for you to see. It’s just taking a whole lot longer than she expected. I suspect she’d have been happy to let you read the files for yourself, if she’d known just _how_ long, but no—she wanted to __show you! She’ll be over for you as soon as she’s done, you can count on it. Meantime, I promised to keep you occupied, so come see what I’ve been up to.’

He led the way along the empty corridor to his 'lab'.

‘You know, I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity to study the samples you brought. It’s really quite extraordinary, the way the genetic codes of the two species, man and dragon—or in the samples I have, mostly woman and dragon!—appear to have aligned themselves, so that the symbiosis created is—’ Jothan saw Sea'n’s grin and stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s more than most of my people would ever want to know, either.’

‘I can never understand your learning,’ Sea'n said. In truth, he had no wish to, for he found the lab an uncomfortable place. There were too many shiny, glittering surfaces, with things that worked and made noises all of themselves—by the thing called electricity, he knew, if not how. It was worse in that way than the Smithcraft Hall, where he could at least _see_ who or what was causing all the racket. On the other hand he could be thankful there was no such racket assaulting his ears.

Jothan stopped before one of the screens that showed words and pictures, some of them moving. _Vids_ , he remembered, on a _terminal_ —which Sea'n had always thought meant the end of something. Right now what he saw there were queer, ladder-like strings of rods and balls—brightly colored, moving and twisting together over darkness. He knew better than to reach out and touch—that the strings were concealed somehow within the screen, where they spiraled over and over again for no clear reason. 

‘You might think of these,’ Jothan indicated the rotating trail almost lovingly, ‘as the building blocks of life. They’re what we are all made of—people, plants, animals—everything that lives! Inside every one of us are tiny particles that cannot be seen with the eye alone. And inside each one of them, are things like this. This is DNA—that’s the acronym for deoxyribo—’ This time it was a raised eyebrow that halted his explanation. ‘I’m doing it again, I know! Sorry, Sea'n!’ 

Sea'n smiled and shook his head. ‘My understanding of these things is not important, only yours. If you can use your learning—your machines and your terminals, and all these other 'gizmos' that mean not a thing to me—to discover what is wrong with our queens and their riders, and so find a way to put it right, then I am satisfied—and more than grateful!’

‘I believe I can—and I am also beginning to suspect that the remaining samples you brought with you may be the foundation for the development of full-size dragons from fire-lizards! The research possibilities are stupendous! And so will the payoff be when we have our _own_ self-replicating low tech, high speed transport—with built-in comm units!’

‘You think the ichor from our dragons will somehow help you to make your own?’ Sea'n asked cautiously.

‘I think so,’ said Jothan, ‘though I suspect the fire-lizards will be involved too, somewhere along the line. I can’t wait to get started! Have to get a bunch of other people involved, of course. It’s way too big a project for me to tackle on my own, and anyway I’m not even sure we could—I’m pretty sure Madam Ping will have to—’ He noticed Sea'n’s frown and broke off once again. 

‘Hey,’ he said hastily. ‘I know we can’t do a thing until you’re gone, and that we’ll have to keep you as much of a secret as possible even then, so there need be no records in your time. I’m not trying to get rid of you, either. It’ll just be so great to be part of something this big and this important!’

Sea'n could not doubt his enthusiasm, but, ‘I do not understand how that can be,’ he said. ‘If you do not have dragons now and need the samples we brought so there may be dragons in the future, how can Sammath and I come from that future to bring you what you need to make sure there are dragons my time?’

‘Hmm.’ Jothan frowned. ‘I think that’s another of those time paradoxes—but I could be wrong because it’s one of the many things _I_ don’t understand, either! Time travel isn’t supposed to exist at all, and what I know is limited to speculative fiction and vids!’ He shrugged the question away.

‘Anyhow, once you’re safely back in the future,’ he rolled his eyes and grinned to be saying such a thing, ‘we can really get going on this. We shall need Madam Ping’s involvement for such complex techniques, of course, and I do wonder if it might be worth getting some of the people who already have the enhanced fire-lizards involved, too. The mentas still don’t actually mind-talk with whoever they look to, the way Sammath does with you, but apparently they have a far more sophisticated level of communication with them than we have with our beach-found friends. I reckon input from menta owners might be quite valuable at some point.’

Jothan was off into one of the speculations Sea'n couldn’t hope to follow, knowing neither the people not the processes involved, so Sea'n had more or less stopped listening. But suddenly his attention snapped back so fast, he cricked his neck.

‘I bet Sean and Sorka would be interested in the project, anyhow,’ Jothan was saying. ‘They were the first ever to impress the wild ones—hell, they’re the reason we found out fire-lizards could _be_ impressed—and they had some of the first hatched mentas.’

‘ _Who?_ ’

‘Sean and Sorka Connell. They’re part of the vet team, up at Landing. Nice young couple. Sorka was a Hanrahan before they wed—I knew her dad way back, at uni…’ Jothan went on talking but Sea'n didn’t hear another word. 

_Sean and Sorka!_

Who surely had to be the same Sean and Sorka who would one day ride Carenath and Faranth—two of the very first dragons. Why had it never occurred to him before—or to anyone else, as far as Sea'n knew—to wonder exactly how those first dragons had come about? 

And they were here _—now_ —in the same time as Sea'n! 

He had wondered before, in a detached sort of way, if the time he arrived in might also happen to be their time. If they might even meet. 

Hearing Jothan speak of them as people he _knew_ was a whole different thing. 

Sea'n clenched his fists at his sides to stop himself blurting out what he knew—or even asking to actually meet them. The temptation was almost irresistible but he knew already this was something he must not do. It would be wrong to influence them in any way—such as revealing the names of the dragons they were fated to Impress. The little he knew might well prove too much, were he to let slip names or even dragon/rider pairings in the excitement of meeting such legendary riders. 

Had such a momentous meeting ever taken place, it could not have been forgotten by dragonriders, however unknown to the rest of Pern. 

If it happened, it would be remembered. It was not, and was therefore a risk Sea'n dared not take—and yet… 

Perhaps it was fortunate that Keela came bursting into the lab at that moment. ‘Sea'n! Sea'n, c’mon—I have something to show you over at the house!’

Jothan smiled indulgently. ‘Go on, I’ll finish up here and be right behind you.’

Keela almost dragged Sea'n into the part of their home they called a kitchen, though it bore not the slightest resemblance to Candessa’s kitchens. Their cooking, Jothan had explained when they shared a meal here on a previous visit, was done by means of several different machines— _units_ , he called them—that baked, warmed, toasted, boiled or froze at the touch of a switch. Another array of bright and shiny surfaces with neither hearth nor flame in sight. Yet more of the ‘gadgets and gizmos’ that made daily living here so much quicker and easier than in Sea'n’s own time.

Keela’s _something_ was laid out on the table: two rows of halved tubers, rounded ends up, each one marked with a different letter. 

‘Watch!’ she said, and picked up the K tuber. Its flat side was carved with that letter in reverse. She pressed it quickly onto something red and squishy, then set it carefully on a piece of paper. 

‘Dad told you a bit about printing already, but things are always easier to understand if you can see them,’ she said, lifting the tuber to show a fat and uneven but clearly printed K. ‘I read up about it, so I could show you how it works. It’s not just as easy as you’d think, though, cutting them out backwards so they print the right way!’ she added, frowning. 

While she explained, she was taking up more letters, and soon had KEELA, then her father’s name and lastly Sea'n’s printed out for him to see. 

He decided it would be unfair to mention the honorific—and probably one of the things he ought not to reveal for fear of influencing his past, their future.

‘The first printers had hundreds of each letter to work with, in upper and lower case, but making one set was enough for me. Theirs weren’t carved out of tubers, of course,’ she said with a giggle. ‘They used wood to begin with, it said in the files, and then later they were cast in metal. And they didn’t print a letter at a time, either—they made them up into words and paragraphs, in blocks to make up a page, and printed them out all at once. Go on, you try it!’

As Sea'n slowly and carefully selected letters, she added, ‘Oh, and Dad said to be sure and tell you the old type-compositors—the people who made up the blocks—had guilds that would probably make your craftmasters look like chatterboxes!’ 

It was uneven and slightly smudged, but it was ELIJAH. For one moment, the name caught Sea'n’s longing in his throat.

‘I knew you’d write his name—that’s why I didn’t! This,’ Keela said, picking up a half-tuber she had set apart, ‘isn’t a letter at all. ‘It’s what’s called an emoticon—like a little picture of what you’re feeling. This one’s a smiley.’ She printed it after Elijah’s name and grinned up at Sea'n. ‘That’s how he makes you feel!’ she said.

Sea'n nodded, with a smile of his own. ‘But it would take a long time to print even a simple message that way,’ he pointed out, ‘far longer even than writing it. I don’t see—’

‘Yeah, but once you all have the letters set up for a page you can print as many copies as you need. So, each of your Weyrs could have a copy of the others’ records, see? And people could more easily share what they knew, so stuff wouldn’t get lost or forgotten if one set was destroyed, or somebody died without sharing—you said that was why so much was lost in your time.’

The front door banged shut then. Keela looked up from where she was printing CILLIAN. ‘Dad! I didn’t think you’d be back already—I haven’t gotten the soup out of the freezer yet, let alone made a start on the sandwiches! Dad?’ 

The footsteps that approached, however, were too light and quick to be Jothan’s.

‘No, it’s me.’ The voice was female, though older than Keela.

When Keela pulled a face, Sea'n raised his brows at her. She quickly printed ROISIN with the tubers and said, ‘My _sister_!’ in a voice as close to grumpy as Sea'n had yet heard from her.

‘Hi, Kee! I just came by to—’ The young woman paused in the doorway, saw Sea'n and flashed him a wide smile. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her voice suddenly a little lower, a good deal warmer, and full of invitation. ‘I didn’t realize we had a visitor!’ 

‘This is Sea'n—Sea'n Rider.’ 

Sea'n had accepted that people in this time all bore two names. He had not realized Keela and her father had decided on a second one for him.

‘Dad’s helping his people with a genetic problem in their breeding stock,’ Keela said, without a trace of her usual friendliness. ‘Sea'n, meet Roisin.’

Roisin had rich chestnut hair that swirled about her shoulders, and liquid brown eyes well-fringed with dark lashes. Both shapely and beautiful—and clearly well aware how to employ such advantages to their utmost—she struck Sea'n at first glance as an immature version of Crista. 

This was the daughter Jothan had named with a fond sigh, but with none of the joy that was clear in him when he spoke of Keela or told of Cillian, the sturdy young son Sea'n would meet at some point today. He was clearly more than proud of Padraig, the elder son, and Ruari, this one’s twin, both away studying at Landing—the principal place of learning in this time Sea'n knew, much like the Harper Hall. Though Jothan spoke generously of Róisín’s undoubted talents, a half-frown always shadowed his fatherly pride. 

And for whatever reason, Keela was not best pleased to see her sister here right now.

‘Well, hello, Mister Rider—or may I call you Sea'n? It’s good to meet you at last. I heard you visited but somehow I’ve never managed to catch you before this!’ 

Sea'n heard a distinct emphasis on the word ‘catch’.

She offered her hand for him to shake, in the way of her people, but its clasp was far more friendly than Sea'n had experienced before. Her thumb lightly stroked—caressed, even—the back of his hand before he could disentangle himself and step away. She followed, almost crowding him until he managed to get the table between them.

‘To meet you, too,’ he replied—the way he had learned was polite, if not necessarily true. From the way she looked at him, she had little interest in why he was here, only that he was. Not so much Crista, now, as a determined green-rider. He had received that same look from too many of them not to recognize it—from both male and female, and whether the dragon in question was proddy or no.

‘Roisin!’ 

‘You get on with those sandwiches, Kee, while Sea'n and I get to know each other a little!’ She turned her back on her sister’s disapproving face. ‘So, Sea'n, are you here to stay for a while? I’d be glad to show you around, introduce you, and so on. You just missed one of the regular dances, but maybe we could get together for the next? I’m not usually around so much, except on Restdays sometimes—but I could be, if you would _like…_ ’ 

She trailed her emphasis on the last word in a stroke of her finger along the edge of the table. Sea'n drew back involuntarily, but she only lowered her lashes and smiled. 

‘It _is_ just you on your own, isn’t it? I thought so—and I _really_ don’t like to think of you all alone in a strange place!’ 

Now she put him most strongly in mind of a proddy green dragon herself, cavorting before the males she hoped would fly for her. Back at Telgar Weyr, she’d have been checking to see Frideth wasn’t watching. No, Sea'n was in no doubt whatever of the color Roisin would Impress if she were put to the Egg.

‘I am not often here,’ he replied, as repressively as he could.

Keela banged open the freezer unit, grabbed a container and slapped it down on the table. ‘There won’t be enough for _you_ ,’ she told Roisin ungraciously. ‘You’ll have to get your own.’

‘I hate to disappoint you, dear, but as much as I should adore to eat with you,’ she turned her brilliant smile on Sea'n, ‘ _I_ am invited out to lunch. I have _Armand_ waiting for me outside in the skimmer.’ 

She seemed to expect Keela to comment on this but Keela was conspicuously busy now, turning a dial on the front of the warming unit—for the soup, Sea'n assumed. He marveled again at how different—and how very quick and easy—food preparation could be in this time. 

A klaxon sounded briefly and Roisin frowned. Clearly Armand, whoever he might be, was becoming impatient. Sea'n could almost see her decide that a suitor already taking her to lunch wasn’t worth upsetting for a prospect she did not yet have time to beguile further.

‘Well, Sea'n, I really do have to leave now, but I shall hope to see you again very soon. And I _really_ hope you’ll still be around for the next dance!’ Not waiting for a response, she flashed another brilliant smile and was gone. Sea'n heard the clatter of shoes in and out of another room, then the outer door slammed and he found himself letting out a taut breath of relief.

Keela sighed. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘She’s always like that around guys these days—I don’t know what’s gotten into her!’

Sea'n tactfully concealed his smile from this younger sister who sounded far more like a parent.

‘Roisin does not live here with you?’ he asked.

‘No. She and a few other girls decided they wanted their own place when they came of age—until they get _contracted_ , at least.’ Keela’s face clearly told what she thought of contracts, which Sea'n assumed were a form of espousal. 

‘She left a lot of stuff in her room here, though—we have more of hers than Padraig’s or Ruari’s, and they _are_ going to come back and live with us. She’d better come clear it out before we move to the stake, because I don’t see why we should have to bring it with us! You’d never know she was twins with Ruari, and not just because they don’t look the same. Ruari would never behave to a girl the way Roisin does with a boy!’

Keela paused and looked thoughtful. ‘Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen him with a girl—he’s a bit shy. Like I said— _nothing_ like Roisin!’ And anyhow, if you want to come to one of the Restday-eve dances—the next one’s a month away—you’d _much_ better do it with Dad and me. We’ll come get you,’ she promised, as if it were a fixed thing already. ‘That’s four of your sevendays,’ she added, seeing his perplexity.

_Four sevendays?_ Sea'n was hoping to be back with Elijah well before then, though he could scarcely say so, when the O’Briens offered him so much kindness, and asked nothing in return.

The outer door opened and shut again, but Keela’s grimace quickly turned to a smile when Jothan entered, his small son in his arms. 

Cillian was a sunny child, the very spit of his father, and no more than initially shy in the presence of a stranger. He was soon babbling away happily, even offering to share some of his somewhat pulped bread roll with Sea'n.

His father had more intelligible questions for Sea'n over the meal. 

‘I keep meaning to ask— I know how you _got_ here, on Sammath. I’m still not clear on exactly how you knew to _come_ here—to this particular time, I mean. You said Sammath followed a pattern of some kind? How did you know you’d find your answer here?’

‘We did not _know_ ,’ Sea'n said. ‘We—Elijah and I—had only a conviction on which to place our trust. A conviction, a dragon, and the inlaid picture of a star formation, beneath the lid of Telgar’s Tally Box.’

‘You did _what_?’ Jothan dropped his soup spoon with a clatter. ‘You came back through time on the strength of a _picture_ inside a box lid? When you had no idea if it was a real place and time _at all?_ Fardles, Sea'n—you could have been lost for—’ He snapped his mouth shut on the last word so Sea'n finished it for him.

‘—ever. Yes, we knew that was a possibility, but Sammath was sure and so was I. It took a while to persuade Elijah but he believed, in the end—or at least, he let me think he did.’ 

Sea'n had always known that Elijah’s faith was in him and not in his journey at all. He usually managed a tight control over how much he missed his weyr-mate, allowing his loss free rein only at night when he was alone—so alone that even Sammath’s presence in his mind was small compensation. Róisín was right about that, though he desired none of her remedy. 

The unexpected reminder caught at his throat once more, and Sea'n had to swallow before he could go on. ‘The Tally Box was the very oldest reference we could find, you see. It is an heirloom, handed down through turn after turn, and legend says it was made by Ram Telgar himself. However true that may be, it is the oldest picture to be found on Pern in my time—and Sammath and I have proved it to be a relic of yours.’

‘And you risked everything on that…’ Jothan said, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.

Sea'n nodded. What more was there to say? He was here and Jothan could help the queens. The decision had been the right one—though Elijah still could not know that. Sea'n quickly brought the subject back into the present. 

‘So, do you know of Ram Telgar?’

‘ _Ram_ Telgar?’ asked Jothan. ‘Well, that’d actually be Telgar-Andiyar, I guess, but he’s just a kid, Sea'n! He can’t be more than six, maybe seven years—your turns—old! And he’s not here, anyway. Like I said before, I think they live out at Karachi Camp, which is I don’t know how many klicks away from here.’

Sea'n frowned. ‘Even our harpers know no more of him than that the Weyr bears his name. I see why the name and the box go together—though I do not see how they _came_ together in the first place. But if the box is not made, here in this time, _I_ cannot be here—and yet, here I am…’ He raised both brows and looked at Jothan.

‘You mean, aside from Keela, who’s really too young—’ Keela spluttered indignantly into her soup at that—which Cillian copied with rather too much glee. While she mopped him down, Jothan rephrased with, ‘Too young _as yet_ , I am the only one who knows all thia, so _I_ have to have it made and get it to him somehow?’

‘I believe so,’ said Sea'n, ‘if you will?’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



	37. Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…a quick enough death, but surely far too long for the agony of it…_

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  
‘Are you kidding? Of course I will! It’ll be a real kick to know I’ve had a hand in what brought—or _will bring_ —you here!’

Jothan shook his head at how literally far-reaching this quite insignificant task would turn out to be. And to be a part of something so breathtaking! 

Sea'n had known exactly the risk he was taking when he made that ride. Boy, did his people have something to thank him for when he got home! _If_ he got home… 

And what was the betting they’d probably think little or nothing of what Sea'n had done—or at least the how of actually doing it. He, the absent tech, would likely get what glory there was to be had—as if he could ever deserve it as Sea'n truly did for his courage, his daring and his willingness to risk all that mattered most to him for the sake of his people. 

Wasn’t there an old saying about a hero having little honour in his own country? 

Well, Jothan could do nothing about that, but this box he’d do his damndest to get right. ‘Only thing is, I have no idea what it should look like!’ 

‘It’s about this wide and this long,’ Sea'n sketched the size with his hands in the air, as Keela jumped up from the table removing the remains of the meal and bringing pad and pencil—also colored crayons to satisfy Cillian’s grabby little hands.

Jothan transferred the dimensions to paper as Sea'n explained, ‘It is made of real wood, not your plastics. The outside is—or was once—quite finely carved. The top shows a settlement of some kind, the sides each have a pair of inward facing profiles—dragons on the longer sides, people on the short. I realize now they are probably your fire-lizards, but for us they will be dragons. It has been a little too well tended over the turns, and constant polishing has blurred away the detail and just left tantalizing suggestion.’

Jothan sacrificed a second sheet to his son’s artistic needs as he jotted down the necessary specifications.

‘The most necessary part—the part Sammath and I will need in our time—is still as crisp and clear as if new-made. It is hidden away, well-protected on the underside of the lid: a picture, skillfully created with inlays of nacre—sea-shell—and woods light and dark that I do not know the names for. It shows the volcano that injured Sammath, looming over a long chain of islands.’ Sea'n frowned. ‘For his sake, I would ask that you change that, but it _has_ happened and so it _must_. More important still, above them in the sky is the exact pattern of the stars that shone there, on the night Sammath and I arrived in your time.’

‘Two nights before the day we met, right? I can call up the configuration, no problem. We’ll have maps and probably pics, too, sea-borne if not aerial, to get the geographical details right. Okay—anything else I should know?’ 

Sea'n shook his head. ‘I do not have the gift of words to tell you how beautiful it is on the inside—all moonlight, sea and stars. I leave that to your craftsman. The box itself is much admired, but its wood is dark and the carvings themselves themselves, as I said, have been cherished into little more than vague impressions.’

‘Leave it with me,’ Jothan said. ‘I know a guy at Monaco Bay who’s a dab hand at carving and fancy shell-work and such. He owes me a favor, too. He’ll do it right—well, he must have, or you wouldn’t be here! I’ll raise him on comm, later tonight. He’ll be glad of the work—no, you don’t!’ he said, as Sea'n opened his mouth, clearly worried he had nothing to offer in return. 

‘Nope, this is all on me. Trouble is, it might take a while if it’s as fancy as you say, and we don’t know just how long you’ll need to be here. I guess you’ll be leaving as soon as I manage to find an answer for your queens. So, do you need to actually see the box when it’s done?’

‘I don’t think so. After all, I never _had_ seen it, until Elijah showed it to me! You will not tell your friend why, only that Ram Telgar must have it? It is even more important—’ 

‘I get it—the box has to find its own way to you somehow,’ Jothan interrupted, ‘and don’t you worry—I’ll keep the whole thing close as an oyster!’

It was another simile, and Sea'n gave him the raised brow that so often said he had no idea what Jothan was on about.

‘As it happens, I’m not surprised you don’t know that one—we didn’t bring any with us and we haven’t found any here! They were a kind of shellfish we had back on Earth. Pearls grew inside them but I guess they’re pretty hard to open, hence the saying.’

Sea'n nodded—though very little the wiser, Jothan realized. How would you envisage a pearl in an oyster if you’d never seen either one?

‘Okay, I’ll ask Yusuf to ship it out to Karachi right away, as soon as it’s done.’

‘I have something else,’ said Sea'n, fishing inside his tunic for a small object wrapped for safety in a wide baylin leaf. As the greenery fell away, a tiny carving of a dragon crouched in the palm of his hand.

‘That’s Sammath!’ cried Keela, peering over his shoulder for a look. She probably knew the pattern of old scars on his dragon’s face almost as well as Sea'n by now.

‘It is indeed,’ said Sea'n. ‘Since Ram Telgar has so few turns as yet, I thought he might appreciate this more than he would an empty box.’

‘I should say so,’ said Jothan, ‘and that’s pretty cute—you make it yourself? I’ll be sure to get it to Yusuf so he can include it when he sends.’

Throughout their lunch he noticed Sea'n watching Cillian in his high chair—accepting the pulped bread with grace, and merely grinning at the sight of the toddler wearing enough of the meal to need a good cleanup—courtesy of Keela, bless her. He already suspected Sea'n had never seen kids of his own grow up, even before he heard about Saben. Jothan could tell he had more on his mind, though, than the son whose childhood he confessed he had mostly missed. 

Instead of sitting at ease after the meal, with a glass of quite decent quikal, he was wandering about the room, examining furniture and fittings almost as if he were thinking of buying the place. It was even keener than his usual interest in the differences between this time and his own.

‘What is this, Jothan?’ Sea'n rapped his knuckles on a cabinet. ‘It cannot be wood—it is too light, too—’ he paused for the right word, ‘—insubstantial to be made of wood. And the surface is too smooth and too shiny to be paint.’

‘No, and we don’t intend to denude Pern of what trees it has, just to make our furniture! This is all made from sheets of compressed vegetable fibers and laminated—that’s the outside coating. Look, here.’ He pulled one of them out from the wall and showed Sea'n the unsurfaced back. ‘You don’t have—? Well, no, I guess you wouldn’t.’

‘Our craftmasters build such things in wood, though supplies are not plentiful—it is not easy shielding entire forests, but we manage. Each piece they make is carefully preserved with oil or paint on every surface, and will last for many, many turns. The tale runs that the shelves and drawers in Candessa’s main storeroom are as old as the Weyr itself. These, though—wood-borers will eat these away before they have time to get old!’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Keela and the boys and I shall use real wood, once we’re settled out on our stake, but we’ll be replanting as we go.’ From Sea'n’s mention of shielding, he wondered vaguely if there was some kind of pest that attacked growing trees in his time. Didn’t seem to be a problem here and now, but maybe he should keep an eye out in future if his dreams of solid wood furniture—like the antiques his grandparents had back on Earth—were to become reality 

Sea'n crossed to the window and stood for a moment watching Keela, now playing some noisy game or other outside with Cillian. Then he lightly tapped the smooth, colorful wall. ‘And this? Is this also made of your pressed fibers?’ 

When Jothan nodded assent, Sea'n turned and asked very seriously, ‘Does _no_ -one in your time build in stone, Jothan?’

It was clearly the question he’d been building up to, though it was a long way from anything Jothan was expecting.

‘Not so much, no. Not yet, anyhow. I did hear the guy who staked out Roma found stone close by, and easy enough to quarry that he used it for his homestead—barns too, from what I recall. But masonry’s heavy work and there isn’t always a supply handy just where you need it. We’ll have all the time there is for that kind of permanent stuff, once we have our home stakes up and running. For now, these pressed-fiber slabs are quick and easy—and more weatherproof than I ever believed they could be!’ Jothan admitted. He had been dubious himself until he had lived in a home, and worked a while in labs, all built out of that very same stuff. 

‘Do they not burn?’

‘Well, of course, they _would_ burn, but we don’t exactly use naked flame around them much, and there’s no real call here for the sort of accelerants it’d take to get them flaming.’

‘But—but what of Thread?’ For some reason Sea'n sounded both shocked and appalled.

‘Thread? What, like sewing thread, you mean? What’s to worry about with _sewing thread_? I don’t know what you’re on about, Sea'n!’

‘You do not know of Thread? At all? I should have known—I should have realized when you said how short a time ago you came to Pern!’’ Sea'n closed his eyes for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was low but very intense.

‘Thread is a thing that falls from the skies,’ he said. ‘It is a silver rain that brings only death. It consumes every living thing it touches, anything that will burn, almost in the blink of an eye. It is like a fire that eats through everything except rock and stone. Everything that lives—people, animals, crops, trees, grass— _every_ thing, Jothan! 

Now, where in tarnation could that have come from, between his now and Sea'n’s then? Sounded pretty serious—apocalyptic, even. Pity he couldn’t offer them the requisite tech to deal with it—or could he? 

But Sea'n had more to tell. ‘It is _why_ we have dragons, Jothan—to flame it from the skies before it can burrow into the soil and destroy roots and crops alike. Without the bravery of our dragons we would have perished long ago—from hunger if not by Thread itself. Without their protection in the skies we could grow no crops and raise no livestock. Our dragons are the only things keeping Pern from being stripped to bare rock.’

He paused, fixing Jothan with a stare. ‘Make no mistake, Jothan—only rock, stone and water will keep it out. Our Weyrs and holds are delved deep beneath mountains or into cliff sides, or else strongly built of stone. These flimsy dwellings will not protect you when it comes, and to be caught by Threadfall without real shelter is to die. It is a quick enough death, but surely far too long for the agony of it.’

‘Now, just you hold on there, Sea'n—you’re making this sound like the worst kind of horror vid!’ Jothan was glad Keela wasn’t indoors to hear this tale—it would give her nightmares. And yet, as incredible as it sounded, Sea'n’s earnest face proved beyond doubt that he meant every word he said.

‘I do not know what you mean. What is horror vid?’

Jothan knew Sea'n at least understood what 'vid' meant. On his very first visit, Keela had insisted on opening her 'best vid' for him to see. It still brought a lump to Jothan’s throat—probably always would—to watch Rissa holding little Cillian, not long after his birth. The girls perched on either side of her and all three were making coochy noises, trying to attract the attention of a baby too smart or too sleepy to be bothered with such blandishments. 

Padraig looked on from behind—a little patronizing and a lot fond. Ruari just looked awkward, though he’d gotten over that pretty quick. Jothan was sure he was Cillian’s favorite sibling before he ‘deserted’ him to go to Landing for the hands-on component of his apprenticeship. An easy fix once Ruari was home again, he’d bet on it.

So yes, Sea'n knew about home vid. He couldn’t know what its absolute opposite—a horror vid—was, though. From what Jothan could make out, his people didn’t even seem to put on plays, just choral pieces, it sounded like.

‘Well, a lot of vids are like the ones you’ve seen—real people doing real things in their daily lives. But many others are made by performance artists—people whose job it is to act out stories, and film them as if they were real life.’ There was no point in confusing Sea'n with more than the gist of the vast vid and holo industries. 

‘We watch for fun—entertainment, you know? Or rather, we used to. Plenty of them in the memory banks still, but not so much time to watch these days. Building a civilization from scratch tends to keep you pretty busy, you know!’ He laughed. 

‘Anyhow, these vids come in all different kinds—romance, action, fantasy. Some are specially for children, some are for anybody, any age, but there’s also this other kind called horror. They’re intended solely for adults who like that sort of thing. They can be a bit too realistic at times—really scary stories, full of violence and blood and death. Some folk do enjoy them, though.’

‘Your people _enjoy_ watching others die?’ Sea'n’s face showed the disgust Jothan himself had felt at some of the vids he’d only heard about.

‘Some do—I don’t myself, but it takes all sorts. Sounds bad, I know, but even soldiers who’ve seen the real thing will sometimes watch them.’

‘I could never willingly watch someone die—and _never_ for _entertainment_!’ said Sea'n, his voice positively scathing now. ‘I have seen it happen in truth, too many times. Before Sammath and I were old enough to fly Fall ourselves, I saw—closer than anyone could ever wish to—what Threadscore does to dragons and their riders. Even the very youngest weyrling has a pair of hands to help, when the contents of a pot or a bucket of numbweed is the only thing that will quiet the whimper of an injured dragon or the screams of his rider. And sometimes, numbweed is the only thing you can do to ease a passing while burrowing Thread completes its work.’

He paused for a few moments, anguish etched deep in his face. Shocked, Jothan waited in silence until Sea'n resumed his telling—quiet enough, but heart-wrenching nonetheless. 

‘I have seen it in the air too, since then. More times than once—and it is not a thing you ever forget, however much you wish to. The first time…’ Sea'n closed his eyes against a sight Jothan knew he was seeing still. 

‘We were not long fledged into D'trel’s wing—Sammath and I, Zendreth and S'ttan, Merith and A'leron—when I saw a tangle of Thread completely destroy A'leron’s face. It was just so _fast…_ ’ 

Small wonder Sea'n’s voice caught and he swallowed hard. Memories like that…Jothan recalled his own helplessness in the face of Rissa’s inexorable decline into death. Such things went on hurting a long time after.

‘It ate its way from his face to his shoulder, even before Merith could snatch them away into _between_. They didn’t—they could not return, so I was spared seeing his body and then Merith’s eaten away into nothing. Such a small mistake as they made that morning, but it was a deadly one.’ 

‘You watched his face get _eaten away_?’ Aghast at the thought, Jothan blurted his question before he could realize how damned insensitive it was. 

A'leron had clearly been a friend, but Sea'n nodded through his pain and answered anyway. ‘I saw enough that Merith took his rider _between_. I knew they would not come back. There is nothing _between_ ,’ he added quietly. ‘No light, no warmth, no up, no down. The only thing you can know is your dragon, and that only because he is with you in your mind, where even between cannot touch. And even together, it must a terrible place to die.’

Jothan could only silently marvel at the courage it must take, to watch things like that happen around you and still fight on, as Sea'n had clearly done, with no other protection than the wher-hide helmet and clothing he’d seen out at Sea'n’s camp.

‘How will you protect yourselves if you do not have dragons, Jothan?’ Sea'n’s question was filled with anguish.

How ironic was that? Here was a guy who faced the horrors he described, wearing nothing more than a skim of leather—and he was worrying that Jothan’s infinitely advanced technology couldn’t find a better, _safer_ way to confront this Thread stuff!

‘Well, now, I’m sure we’ll come up with something,’ Jothan said confidently. ‘How often does this stuff come around, anyhow? Hasn’t shown up once since we’ve been here.’

‘It does not just ‘come around’—that is not the way of it. How often Thread falls depends on whereabouts in the Pass you are. At the beginning and toward the end of a Pass, for a few hours only—maybe once every few days. But in between, far more frequently than that—daily, at times.’

‘What’n the heck’s a Pass?’

‘Every two hundred or so turns, the Red Star comes close enough to rain Thread down on Pern. It takes fifty turns, sometimes more, sometimes less, for the Red Star to Pass.’

‘Fifty turns— _years?_ ’ Jothan was completely stunned. ‘This stuff goes on falling every day or so for _fifty years?_ ’ 

He was filled with sudden deep respect—and pity—for the brave dragonriders who must face that recurring nightmare. Not just day after day, year on year but decade upon decade—for what was likely their entire lives.

Sea'n’s nod was solemn. ‘And it comes close, now, for you,’ he said heavily, ‘for the Red Star burns brighter every day. In my time, we have an Eye Rock precisely located above each Weyr. When the Red Star is framed by the Eye at Winter Solstice, we know Thread will fall as the turn warms once more. But…’ 

He shrugged at the obvious lack of any such device in this time. ‘Your machines may find a way to give you warning, though I doubt they can truly comprehend more of Thread than you can, Jothan. I was too young when our Pass began, to recognize just how close the Red Star must appear before Fall begins, but even I can tell it is close. I cannot say when it may begin, but Sammath says soon, and he knows.’

‘ _How_ soon?’

‘He cannot tell me that. Dragons do not measure time as we do. Soon may mean within the next sevenday or the next season, this turn or next, perhaps even later, though I doubt that. I think… _very_ soon, now.’

‘And this stuff will—what? Rampage all across Pern, destroying everything as it goes?’ Jothan couldn’t help sounding a bit skeptical still, even to himself.

‘Not all at one time, no. It falls in bands, in waves, every few days. Some few places may possibly escape its bite altogether, but that matters not, for Thread also burrows beneath the soil, consuming roots and laying waste to the crops above. Once it has burrowed, only agenothree or starvation—when there is nothing left for it to feed on—will kill it.

‘Our dragons attempt to destroy it all from the air, though inevitably some Thread escapes the wings. After Fall, ground crews go out with flamethrowers, spraying agenothree deep into the burrows they find. I have no idea how it is made—the Smithcrafthall provides it though I have no idea how they make it. I think our holders also use it as a fertilizer, in a dilute form.’ 

‘Agenothree? Age…n…o…three,’ Jothan repeated, more slowly. ‘What—you mean HNO3?’ He caught Sea'n’s blank look and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t really matter what you call it I suppose, but nitric acid—well, that would make sense, I guess. Enough of a concentration and it’ll destroy almost anything.’

He frowned. This _Thread_ sounded pretty devastating for Sea'n’s people but, good heavens, they had answers in this time to problems his folk didn’t even know existed. Small wonder they’d fear the stuff so much when no-one in their time had the skills to analyze it, let alone access to the kind of expertise—the kind of high-tech solution—that the AIVAS could probably turn up in seconds.

‘I see why you’re so worried about it, but…’ he hesitated.

‘You doubt the truth of my words,’ Sea'n said quietly.

‘No—well, yes,’ Jothan hesitated. ‘It really isn’t that I doubt you, Sea'n—I get that you have _lived_ this stuff. It’s just that—look, there are more worlds out there than you can possibly imagine. From here they’d seem like tiny stars in the night sky, except they’re too far away even for that, without a powerful ’scope. And we, the people of Pern, were most of us born on one or other of those distant worlds. Like I told you before, we came _to_ Pern in three vast ships that brought people, plants, animals, and more materiel— _things_ —than you would believe. It took us fifteen years to get here, even as fast as we were traveling, and most of us actually slept that whole time away!’ 

He could see Sea'n doubting the truth of _his_ words, now, but that didn’t matter as long as Jothan could get his point across.

‘We have the ability to do all of that, and so much more I can’t even begin to tell you about. Our memory banks,’ he waved a hand toward his home terminal, ‘contain knowledge, experience and technology from the entire Federated Alliance of Sentient Planets. There surely has to be a solution to your Thread in there somewhere—one that doesn’t rely on the bravery of a few thousand selfless men and women and their dragons, to save a world!’

‘If that were so, why would I and my people now so sorely need those dragons in order to go on saving that world?’ Sea'n asked, his face more solemn than Jothan could ever remember. ‘I have not come so far through time to seek aid for them on a mere _whim_ , Jothan!’

~~~

Note: If Keela can quote Clarke, I can paraphrase Tolkien! The hero who warranted the spelling adjustment was, of course, Frodo—RotK VI, Chapter 9: The Grey Havens. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Keela can quote Clarke, I can paraphrase Tolkien! The hero who warranted the spelling adjustment was, of course, Frodo—RotK VI, Chapter 9: The Grey Havens


	38. Interim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…your world is governed by a handful of randy queen dragons…?_

Sea'n raised a brow and waited.

Jothan drew a deep breath and blew it out again, clearly dubious still. ‘Put it that way and I can’t come up with an answer, but…’ 

‘If my presence in your time and my words cannot convince you, I can think of no other way—and I would not have you face such dangers wholly unprepared.’ 

Sea'n could barely believe there were people on Pern who had never known Thread. The reverse was probably true for Jothan, of course. It must be well-nigh impossible for him to conceive of the Pern he knew being devoured by a danger he couldn’t even imagine. One he never really would, until he saw its hideous destruction unleashed.

‘And here was I, thinking of dragons as just a nifty solution to our future transportation problems! Well, I don’t know—maybe if it starts to fall before we have dragons of our own, we can use sleds and skimmers to fight it in the air, instead?’

Sea'n nodded uncertainly. From his limited experience in skimmers, and of sleds from a distance, neither had the maneuverability only dragon wings could provide. But if that was all they had here, it was better than nothing. At least if Jothan gave some thought now to equipping them to fight Thread, he would be better able to advise what must be done by others, when the need arose—as Sea'n knew it must.

‘The higher we can catch it, the better—yes? Like your dragons do? Maybe keep the skimmers for mopping up what gets through, since they’re not intended for use at altitude. We should be able to rig flamethrowers on the sleds, though. You think that would work?

‘The metal will not burn, but will the driver be safe beneath the canopy? Sleds and skimmers cannot take them _between_ as dragons do, to freeze Thread that finds its way to skin—and they will not make it back to the ground before they are consumed.’ 

It was the canopy that had Sea'n worried—would this material you could see right through have strength enough to resist Thread?

‘Siliplex doesn’t burn either, so I guess they’d be safe enough inside,’ Jothan reassured him. ‘A whole lot safer than you in your wher-hide, anyhow!’

‘Your vehicles are fast,’ said Sea'n, still doubtful, ‘but they do not have the same agility as a dragon in the air. Even the largest dragon can flex his neck or swivel midair to flame Thread that falls just out of reach. A sled or skimmer is too rigid to fight the way dragons do.’ 

He knew he would never really convince someone who had never fought Thread in the air, of exactly how lithe a dragon must be to flame the maximum amount of it, while also keeping both dragon and rider out of harm’s way. After a heavy Fall, Sammath’s fast turns and sudden changes of direction could leave Sea'n’s back and thighs aching for days, no matter how skillfully Elijah applied Meretin’s standard preparation for aches and strains—and no matter what other, more distracting skills he zealously employed. 

‘Flamethrowers are useful, though far less effective,’ he warned. ‘Queens cannot chew firestone, so our queen-riders bring flamethrowers to the fight—at the lowest level only, to catch what has escaped the wings high above. Holders on the ground use them after Fall to burn out any Thread that survives.’

‘Dragons chew some kind of _stone_?’

‘Did I not say so before? All dragons but queens use firestone. Somehow they digest it in their second stomach and use it to belch out flame. I can show you where to find the stone—there is a seam visible in the cliffs not so far westward of the cove.’

‘Great, thanks. Looks like it’ll be a while before we need it, though, what with the time it’ll take to get our own fire-breathing dragons! Be sleds and skimmers for us for a while, I reckon, and even that’ll take some practicing. Only trouble is, I doubt we have the power packs to last out more’n a year or five, if we’re gonna use them up fighting this Thread of yours every few days for decades on end. 

‘Well, one thing’s for certain sure. Looks like we—’ and Jothan waved a hand to indicate himself and his people, ‘—have one helluva a job on our hands, once you’re safe home again!’

Jothan seemed satisfied at that, but Sea'n knew he could have no real idea how worried he ought to be—not until he met the real thing. He could only hope Jothan’s first glimpse would be from the safety of rock, stone or siliplas. Sea'n had at least gotten him to promise his first task after taking him back to Sammath that day would be to discover—Jothan called it ‘searching the data banks’—a coating for the slabs they used to build their houses that would make them Threadproof.

Even so, back at the cove with his dragon, Sea'n was not one whit the easier for having warned Jothan of the peril to come. Jothan wanted to believe him, he knew. The problem was, he and all his people had relied for too long on the tech that seemed to Sea'n to dictate almost everything in this time.

Admittedly it seemed to have answers for most of their current problems—but neither it nor they had ever encountered Thread. A seasoned dragonrider, Sea'n knew in his heart that their aerial vehicles must fail against it. 

Dragons were the answer they must come up with in the end, or Sea'n would not be here. But for Jothan, right now, such living, breathing creatures lacked the obvious tech he truly believed all solutions should involve—even the answer to Threadfall. The only hope Sea'n could see for Jothan’s people lay in his mention of the enlargement of the tiny fire-lizards into full size dragons—using ever more of that tech, and the remaining ichor Sea'n had brought with him.

Meantime, he had a problem of his own. A discontented dragon was as new an experience for him as it was for Sammath himself. He had never before received injuries severe enough to keep him from the skies for longer than a day or two at most. 

Where singe or blister was the problem, healing was as quick as either of them could have hoped. It was luck alone that had kept the widespread peppering of small holes in Sammath’s wings from ripping apart into massive rents, given the pressure of air against and through them as he glided to land at last. Even these had knit together within a couple of sevendays. A few of the larger ones still bore their cloth-and-numbweed supports, though Sea'n might possibly feel confident enough to remove them before the end of the third. 

Certainly Sammath had thought them unnecessary a mere handful of days into his healing— which had as much to do with how restless and impatient he had grown as with his healing. Wallowing in the shallows, catching yellowtails or whatever else might be inveigled into mistaking him for a sheltering reef—even soaking up sun on the beach itself—were fine pastimes when they were his by choice. A sevenday without flying was anathema to him, and he had been marooned on the beach for more than twice that, already. 

Sea'n himself was keeping more than busy enough. Aside from feeding himself and Sammath—with rather more success, given Keela’s fishing net—he was hard at work on Jothan’s stake. Since Jothan had no use for the marks he had brought, this was the only way Sea'n could repay him for his aid to the queens. He could guess just how much of Jothan’s free time would be spent out here if he were not shut away in his lab working with the samples Sea'n brought.

Turns ago, the young Seanachan had helped take in a new meadow for the hold. Boring post holes was heavy work and old Tendy, on the opposite arm, obviously provided three-quarters of the heft. Sea'n’s younger self had been of more use carting away the spoil than heaving the crossbar around and around.

Jothan’s posthole borer certainly dug deeper and quicker, but Sea'n still preferred the elbow-grease kind he knew from home. This one juddered and was noisy, whatever power it used. It also made every muscle in his shoulders ache and, powered or not, bending over it to control stability completed the aches from top to toe. And with no-one to haul away the spoil, either, he had two heavy jobs to call his own. Keela, when she visited, would have been happy to help, but that would have been unfair.

He was usually sweating freely and more than ready for a quick swim whenever Sammath’s mental alert—soon to be followed by a tooted burst of klaxon—warned him that either Keela or Jothan or both were on their way. He had never quite liked to inform either pilot of the warning already received.

It was a lively sound, most welcome for the companionship it brought. He was never truly alone, of course, for Sammath was with him always. But Sammath’s voice inside his head had no effect on the background sounds that were all he had. The son of a bustling hold and more recently a rider in two great, echoing Weyrs, he was unused to so much comparative quiet. It made him miss Elijah more than ever, wanting most of all to share this unending solitude with him. 

A cheerful voice—usually Keela’s, sharing tales of her life here, full of exclamation and question, too—was a great relief. It cut easily across the constant lap of waves, the swish of leaves in the breeze and the occasional chirp of a fire-lizard.

He was completely amazed the first time she skimmered out to the cove alone—mostly that she would be allowed to control such a huge example of their machines. He did not mention it to her, remembering how touchy a young weyrling could be if you cast even the slightest doubt on his or her ability to control their dragonet. He waited instead to ask Jothan, who set him right with a laugh.

‘It flies on autopilot,’ he said. ‘I program the controls—tell it where to go, how high, how fast and so on. Keela just sits tight and lets it bring her. She _can_ fly a skimmer manually—does it very well, in fact—but kids have to be fifteen before they can check out to actually pilot solo. There’s very little danger. The autopilot sets proximity alarms and has evasive sub-routines built in—and it’s not as if there’s a whole lot of air traffic out here for her to hit!’

Since Sea'n’s arrival, she had flown out as often as she could, between her schooling and time spent with Cillian. Sea'n knew Jothan arranged adult supervision for the toddler where possible, if he could not himself be by. He would rather Keela’s little brother be a pleasure to her than a burden.

Sea'n almost began to worry that he had replaced that one averted burden with another, for never did she visit but she ended up working by and with him—though never at the heavy tasks for Jothan’s stake. 

They might go fishing for Sammath, or collect driftwood for a fire to roast a couple of the fish they caught—or occasionally one of the colorful fliers brought down by Sea'n’s sling. The kill was usually his too, no matter how diligently Keela practiced, firing pebble after pebble at a line of big shells perched on a log. It was all more enjoyable for Sea'n than doing any of these things alone, and Keela thought they were fun, and said so. 

Having paused the heavy work, Sea'n was always ready to rid himself of both sweat and grime, and swimming was one of Keela’s favorite activities—after bathing Sammath, she said. With that, they had other help, of course. The bronze might not exactly get dirty, semi-submerged as he was half the time, but he did enjoy a gentle scrub over healing skin that itched. The local fire-lizards had adopted him as their own, and delighted in scrubbing his back, scooping claws full of sand to drop on him, scraping and scratching. Gently at first—instinctively avoiding areas too tender for the activity—more vigorously as he healed.

But Keela obviously reveled in these unaccustomed tasks, and more so in the time they gave, as she worked beside him, to question Sea'n on every aspect of life in his time. She would begin with a simple query: ‘How does a Search dragon…?’ or ‘What happens if one of the holdfolk…?’ and before Sea'n knew it, he was explaining the complexities of Weyr protocol, or digging deep into what he remembered of holder life.

She was particularly interested in how one came to be a dragonrider. 

‘It’s not only boys who get to ride dragons though, is it? The names I typed in were all girls’ names—except Elijah, of course!’ She grinned at Sea'n. ‘And almost all of them were riders, with dragons of their own. Queens, even—just like Elijah!’

Sea'n smiled inwardly at the thought of Lenara or Crista being referred to as a girl, but was careful not to let it show.

‘Anyone found on Search has the chance to stand on the Sands,’ he said. ‘Once chosen, they may stand to every clutch until they pass the age of Impression. Some wait through several clutches before their lifemate hatches—and for some, it never happens.’

‘So I might get to ride a dragon of my own, one day? Dad said he’s going to work on us having dragons too, once you’ve gone home.’

‘Indeed you might,’ Sea'n agreed, privately believing she almost certainly would, for Sammath fully approved of her. To give her false hope, however, would have been unkind.

‘A green or a queen, because I’m a girl, right? Not the other colors, because they’re boys only, but greens can be for either. So, how come Elijah is the only guy who gets to ride a queen?’

‘Elijah is an exception to many rules!’ Sea'n said with a proud grin. ‘There has never been another male queen rider, and no-one knows why Frideth chose him. He was not even a candidate, just one of the audience.’ 

He tried his best to describe Frideth’s hatching for her, but he was no harper. He didn’t quite have words for the joyous atmosphere that turned to anxiety and then despair, as the young queen rejected not only every candidate, but every female in the Ground that day. For the fear that her mate could not be found—that she, a much-needed queen, would refuse to feed from any other hand and thus die of starvation. Keela held her breath at that. 

Then, the sudden quiet as her keening ceased, and Elijah’s voice asking who had called him. The relief and wonder when Impression occurred and he told her name. Sea'n would have given much to be present that day, though he knew the tale by heart, of course.

‘Since then, people have wondered if her daughters might also choose from among the boys, but it has not happened—at least, it had not when we left…’ 

Not Gilanth’s possible rising but Frideth’s haunted Sea'n. The thought that she may have flown—and _been_ flown, by another bronze—while he and Sammath waited here in the past for a solution on behalf of other queens. That Elijah had—Elijah _must_ then have—

It was pain he could not share, especially not with Keela. Not when his practical account of the imperatives of dragon-mating had clearly disturbed the adult Jothan. He too was highly interested in how life in the Weyrs was organized, though he called it 'social dynamics'.

‘Leadership of each of the six Weyrs is in the gift of the Weyrwoman, who rides the senior queen of that Weyr,’ Sea'n explained to him one time while Keela was splashing happily in the water, diving from Sammath’s tail raised a little higher each time. ‘When that queen flies to mate, and allows herself to be caught, her choice of bronze dictates who will lead the Weyr. His rider is the Weyrleader for as long as his dragon remains the queen’s choice.’

‘Excuse me?’ said Jothan, his voice betraying unexpected shock. ‘You’re telling me the entire social structure of your world is governed by a handful of randy _queen dragons?_ ’ 

‘It is not like that!’ protested Sea'n. ‘Think, Jothan! To lead a Weyr successfully in Fall, the wings must have the strongest, most capable leader. Only the strongest, most capable bronze is able to catch a queen in flight. Not for nothing do the harpers sing that the dragon makes the rider. It is a rare rider that does not reflect his or her dragon’s strengths—and he or she, the dragon’s. Only the rider whose bronze is chosen by the senior queen is _worthy_ to lead that Weyr.’

_Surely he can see that_ , Sea'n thought but did not say.

‘So, survival of the fittest taken to its Darwinian limit!’ Jothan declared—incomprehensibly to Sea'n, though he seemed then to accept the point.

‘It has served us well for as many turns as we have had dragons!’ said Sea'n, still on the defensive.

‘I see that—but, don’t you have any choice at all in who you love? You _have_ to mate where your dragon dictates?’

‘Love and mating are different things in the Weyr. Mating is dragon-driven, and no-one caught up in their dragon’s lust can resist—nor would want to! Weyrwoman and Weyrleader need have nothing more than respect for each other after their dragons have mated, though they must work together thereafter for the good of the Weyr. If the queen becomes dissatisfied with her bronze, she will choose another in a subsequent flight. Among the other colors, a green may rise to mate several times a turn, though she will never lay fertile eggs. She may be caught by a male of any color, and their riders will also mate.’

Jothan stared at Sea'n now, the shock clear in his face— _like an untaught crofter_ , thought Sea'n, remembering the one that attacked Elijah at Fort’s gather. Ignorance could be a very dangerous thing, when it came to dragon-mating, and at least Jothan at least showed no sign of resorting to violence.

‘Wait—didn’t you say most green-riders are male? What if the other guy doesn’t want sex with a male? It’s not exactly every man’s—I mean, you have Saben, so you must… Did _you_ want it, when Sammath first—?’ He broke off, rushing in with an apology. ‘I’m sorry—that is _so_ none of my business!’

Sea'n shook his head. ‘In the Weyr, mating is not so private an affair as it seems to be among your people. Who mates with whom can never be secret when many dragons are involved, all vying for the same queen or green, their riders all waiting on the outcome of the flight. Quite stable matings may be formed outside of a flight, no matter which dragon catches the green. A blue will rarely outfly a bigger and faster brown, after all—much less a bronze, should one challenge—but his rider may already be lover to the rider of that green. What happens then is that a substitute is provided at the last, for each according to his preference.

‘When Sammath first flew Frideth, I had never mated a male rider, but substitution is not acceptable in a queen-flight. Nor,’ he said with a rueful laugh, ‘have the many other riders whose bronzes have flown unsuccessfully for Frideth! It was no barrier, then or later…’ He smiled as he recalled that first mating. His anxiety beforehand that proved groundless, and the wonder he had known with Elijah—then and since, to the very day of his leaving. 

Her next rising, however…

‘Our mating was— _is_ —unlike any other. I was Weyrleader of Igen for more than seven turns with Weyrwoman Crista, until Sammath forced me from a sound sleep to fly to Telgar, so he might mate Frideth. It was unheard of—but then, so it is for the rider of a queen to be male!’

‘But, I thought…you _love_ Elijah, don’t you?’

‘More than I can say. Our weyrmating is quite different, in ways that have nothing to do with what sex Elijah may be. We are a truly mated pair.’ 

_So we were, and shall be again—no matter what may have happened in the time_ between _—if ever I return…_

Jothan had asked no further, but in return explained the obligation on every one of the colonists to breed, no matter their sexual preference. The concept of contract marriage here, with its arbitrary limits as to term, sounded no better to Sea'n than the arrangement within the Weyrs. Furthermore, it completely lacked the sublime pleasure to be found in any dragon-mating—which was surpassed only by the mating of bronze with queen. And that, he could no more have explained to Jothan than he could fly without Sammath.

When, a few mornings later, the bronze warned him of the distant approach of a skimmer, Sea'n knew it could not be either Jothan or Keela. It was too early in the day—Jothan had his proper work to do in and around the lab, and Keela had lessons. Also, no cheerful toot heralded the arrival.

Whoever was coming out this way—and Sea'n could not help the sinking feeling that it might even be Róisín—he had to be at the stake to meet them. He must not receive unknown visitors where they might see Sammath. He set off at a sprint, hoping the pilot used the same directions—coordinates, Jothan called them—as Keela’s pre-programmed skimmer. 

Jothan’s house and home paddocks were cleared of brush now—the burning done with as little smoke as possible so as not to rouse unwanted interest from afar—and marked with posts. The base of the house was staked out, plas-joists already in place to take the flooring sheets. Keela had even laid out her own small garden—which she and Sea'n had cleared together and Sea'n had dug in readiness for her seeds—in lines of bright red sylcord. 

With luck the driver would concentrate on all of that, and not even spare a glance toward the beach. In direst need Sammath could go _between_ from the ground, though it was not a risk he should take as yet, with the worst of his hurts barely healed.

Reaching the tent, Sea'n dived inside, emptied his water carrier into a pan and set off toward the stream. At the excusable moment—when he could actually know the skimmer was approaching—he stopped and peered skyward, one hand shading his eyes from sun. For all the world a shy nomad alarmed by a visitor he might not know.

When it landed—in the center of one of Sea'n’s cleared paddocks—his surmise proved correct. He had never met the person who stepped out.

He was no taller than Jothan though less bulky as yet, his dark hair very much like Elijah’s, showing the same coppery glints in the sunshine. This boy—for he was scarcely more—had the same coltish grace and his smile was equally welcoming. 

‘Hello there!’ the newcomer called, and Sea'n would have known him for Jothan’s son right then by the lilt in his voice alone—less pronounced than Jothan’s, more obvious than Keela’s.

Sea'n had expected Ruari to be a male version of Roisin, with brown eyes and bright chestnut hair. With a personality to match, maybe, which Sea'n could definitely do without. No-one had mentioned that the two were _un_ alike twins, but he remembered Keela saying Ruari looked more like Padraig. Sea'n was half-expecting blue eyes to go with the dark hair, though these were lighter and less striking than Elijah’s. 

‘Da told me you’d be out here. He said he’d bring me to meet you, but I’m on break from Landing and wanted to surprise him by putting in some work for the old place—well, the new place as will be—though you look to have gotten on pretty well already, considering Da’s busy with your livestock problem and can’t be out here so much—and I’m sorry,’ he held out his hand with a laugh, ‘you’ll be thinking I’m as bad as Keela, not letting you get a word in.’

Sea'n was thinking that very thing, though with Keela the babbling was different. This lad seemed nervous, where Keela simply tried to put too many thoughts into words all at once. Even at a glance, he could scarcely have been more different from his twin—not just in looks but in temperament, too, for which Sea'n was truly thankful.

‘I am Ruari O’Brien and I’m very pleased to meet you—Sea'n isn’t it? Sea'n Rider? That’s a good Irish first name you have too, for all that we’re not supposed to think that way any more, now we’re light years away from Earth.’ Ruari clamped his mouth firmly shut on that, clearly as aware as Sea'n that he was starting to ramble again.

Keela had remarked on his name before, so Sea'n let it pass with a smile. He offered his hand, though not his affiliation to Sammath, knowing by now that the honor of such a tie meant nothing in this time. 

‘I have heard much of you from Jothan,’ he said instead. ‘He is rightly proud of his family.’

Ruari colored at the implied compliment. ‘I guess so—anyway, what are you working on? Something I can pitch in and help with?’ 

It might indeed be good, thought Sea'n, to have someone to work alongside him—a more equal workmate in this endeavor than Keela could ever be.[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	39. Smitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…forget smitten—this was far more head-over-heels…_

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  
_Shut up shut up shut up!_ Ruari told himself. Babbling like a babe—or at least like Keela—was no way to impress this man.

It flashed through his mind that impressing was what you did to attach a fire-lizard—maybe for life, though it was too soon for anyone to really know that. Attaching Sea'n to himself, _possibly_ for life, sounded pretty sweet—and a total pipe dream.

Sea'n’s hand in his was a firm brown clasp, and for Ruari the touch was like the sudden zing of an unguarded wire on one of Fulmar’s machines.

At Landing, he lived and worked among guys of all ages and types. That was when he first realized he was never going to look at girls the way most of them did. He had done nothing more with the idea as yet—nor ever had a reaction like this to a single one of them.

He was _not_ going to throw himself at Sea'n the way he knew his twin would—or maybe she already had? Why would Sea'n be interested in him, anyway? Neither Da nor Keela had mentioned yet, but he probably had someone waiting for him, back wherever the rest of his people were. He was of an age to be contracted—with a stake of his own already, if he’d decided to settle in one place at last. Probably to some beautiful cailín who would give him children as strong and independent as Sea'n himself.. 

‘Y-you’ve really gotten on out here!’ he said, hoping Sea'n wouldn’t notice his little stutter of excitement at the thought of working alongside him and hopefully getting to know him better.

He turned aside to cover his slip, exclaiming instead at the differences since the last time he came out to the cove. So much of the area had been cleared of brush already, the bones of the house-place now firmly established, barns and nearer paddocks all marked out and even a small patch of garden turned over and seeded. 

That was Keela’s, he knew, for all that the work was mostly Sea'n’s. After he arrived home last night, she’d rambled on at length about Sea'n and how much he done for them out here. At one point she mentioned a ride of some kind that seemed to be called Sam, but caught herself up mid-sentence. Glancing over at Da, who was frowning, she babbled instead about her little garden and all the wildflowers from the auld country she’d have growing there once her seeds sprouted and grew up. 

Maybe that glance had meant she was going to reveal details of Sea'n’s home life that for some reason he didn’t want talked about? 

Well, at least Sea'n lived alone out here, in the air-beam tent over to one side. That much Ruari did know for sure, and was slightly disappointed to see it was the ordinary kind from Stores, not the jigsaw draping of fabric over self-cut poles he had imagined for one of the traveling folk. Da must have borrowed it for him—or was he pandering to old world stereotypes, here? 

It was just—Sea'n was somehow like no man Ruari had ever met, and he ought to have a more exotic setting than a gaudy nysyl tent in a very workmanlike clearing. If only he’d trained alongside Padraig. With veterinary expertise he could have offered practical help, perhaps even returning to Sea'n’s—what? Camp? Village?—with him, to treat whatever ailed their livestock on the spot. 

Then he remembered the pretty cailín who was likely waiting for him, and decided he preferred Sea'n out here and all to himself.

‘What do you have on the agenda for today, then?’ he asked. ‘Were you in the middle of something we can work on together?’ If he couldn’t keep his mouth shut completely, at least his questions were focused on work.

‘Not really—I had thought to make a start on trenching for the water pipes,’ Sea'n waved an arm toward the long stack of blue plas-pipes. ‘Jothan left plans for where the outlets need to be. Unless you have a better idea, of course? This will be your home, after all—I’m just the brawn helping make it happen.’

Indeed he was. Sea'n wore a sleeveless leather vest that showed off just how well all this grunt work must have served to hone that glorious physique. Ruari swallowed, glad his own shirt had long sleeves. Most of his work at Landing was done indoors and he hadn’t been on the job long enough yet to have much muscle to speak of. The thought of those well tanned, powerful arms alongside his own pale, undeveloped lengths of sylcord made him shudder, and not in a good way. Maybe he could just roll his sleeves to the elbow?

Sea'n’s forehead creased, then he grinned and said, ‘Joat—that’s what Jothan called me!’

‘Jack of all trades? Yeah, I guess we’re _all_ going to have to turn our hands to stuff we’ve never done before. That’s a good start you’ve made for us already, though—and Keela was near to bursting with how pretty her garden’s going to be.’ 

‘The soil is better than I expected, so close to the beach. It’s light enough and easy to turn,’ said Sea'n. ‘But if you had cleared and burned as much brush as I have, you’d know it’ll need the full seven years and then some. What?’ he asked, to Ruari’s look of surprise.

‘That saying—it was one of Mam’s—my mother’s. _One year’s seeding, seven years’ weeding_. I just didn’t think the traveling folk went in for gardens much at all. Oh,’ he clapped his hand to his mouth. ‘Oops—foot-in-mouth disease! I’m so sorry—it was rude. Please forgive me.’

‘Not to worry,’ Sea'n’s grin shone out again. ‘I did a fair bit of holding when I was— young.’ 

Ruari pretended not to notice the sudden hitch before that last word. Whatever else Sea'n had been going to say was not something he intended to share, which Ruari found illogically hurtful. He wanted to ask when and why and how come, since Sea'n couldn’t be all that much older than he was—mid to late twenties, maybe?--and decided against. Later, perhaps, when he knew Sea'n better—though, given his druthers, the sooner the better…

Besides, he had an idea he’d been itching to try, though he wasn’t sure if Sea'n would want to. It couldn’t hurt to ask, though. 

‘I know it’ll be important to pipe stream-water to the fields for the livestock, but we’ll need it first, at the house. So, how do you feel about digging a well?’

‘Sounds good to me, but don’t you have a machine for that, too?’ Sea'n asked, grinning for his tease.

Ruari grinned back. ‘Of course we do—and it’s booked out for _years_ to come. Every second stake that signs it out brings it back to Engineering for repairs within the week—trust me, I _know_! No, I thought with the auto-auger, some extension rods and enough muscle between us—’ even if most of it would be Sea'n’s, ‘—we could get down far enough to hit fresh water. What do you think?’

‘It needs doing and we’re here to get it done! Do we know where it’s to be?’

‘On the original plan, I—’ Ruari swallowed _sited it_ and went with, ‘I think it was by the corner here, but it might be better back there.’ He’d had plenty of time since that first design to identify a better location. 

He was proud of his work for the stake—and more importantly, so was Da—but somehow, it made him squirm to think of blurting it out to Sea'n. It might come out a bit too much like bragging, he thought, and turned away—as much to hide his blush as to point out his chosen spot.

Sea'n looked that way and nodded. ‘Far enough from the shore and the shortest distance to have to pump it into the house. Let’s get started then,’ he said, and picked up the post-hole borer, that Ruari called an auto-auger.

Knowing the theory was one thing. Putting it into practice was a lot more pain. 

It was hot work under a bright sun and by the time they stopped for a water break, Ruari was panting from exertion. ‘My arms and shoulders think they’re still working that thing!’ he said, juddering them in front of him by way of explanation.

‘It wears off in time,’ Sea'n said. ‘Believe me, I know. The name gives you false hope, though. It makes it sound as if the job will be done before you know it, and it really is not!’ 

He accepted a bottle of water from the cooler Ruari had brought and tipped his head back, his eyes closed, gulping thirstily. 

Ruari watched a thin rivulet escape and trickle down Sea'n’s throat as he swallowed, and turned away hastily. ‘You know,’ he said, soothing the dryness of his mouth with a bottle of his own, ‘there are easier ways of shifting spoil than hauling it away on an old tarp.’ They were taking turns between the judder and the hauling—two different forms of hard work.

‘And I thought we had it down pat!’ 

‘We’re not doing too badly, but it could be easier.’

Sea'n raised a brow, awaiting explanation. 

‘Well,’ said Ruari, ‘there are any number of float pallets not in use this time of year—no crops being collected or transported…’

‘You think it might be possible to borrow one?’

‘If I turn up here without one tomorrow, you have my permission to make me haul every load on my own!’

Ruari could hardly wait, next morning, to show Sea'n his prize. ‘Getting it into the skimmer was a hassle, but like I said, no-one was using it—and we really need it. I signed it out and everything,’ he added, in case Sea'n thought it an illegal acquisition.

Working alongside Sea'n was a pleasure. He wasn’t bossy, even when he knew a better way to do whatever. He wasn’t a gabblemouth either, but he had plenty to share about the practical stuff they were doing, and it wasn’t like Ruari was ever short of something to say, himself. 

Sea'n was pretty reticent about anything that came too close to home, though—like where he actually lived and with whom. Not a word about that waiting cailín, though he did speak of the son, a couple of years younger than Keela, whom he missed and was clearly very proud of. He spoke more about the homestead he was helping build, his face darkening for some reason when Ruari mentioned how quickly it would be finished once they hauled out the cladding sheets.

Even the way he spoke was…different. Not an accent Ruari had met with before—which was saying something when you thought about the many, many ethnicities that passed through Landing. Not really an accent, as such, either—more a different way of speaking his words. Ruari could have listened to him all day every day, given the chance—which he hoped this would be.

Those days blurred together for Ruari—though his muscles were certainly becoming clearly defined—until the well was complete and lined with the neutral plasticizer his dad borrowed and brought out on Restday. Working alongside Da _and_ Sea'n was good, with Keela keeping Cillian occupied with bucket and spade by the stream. Ruari wondered why she didn’t take him to the beach but maybe Da would worry if he was out of sight. The three of them together got the job done faster, but Ruari still preferred to have Sea'n to himself out here. 

They celebrated the finished lining and the steady influx of water—muddy as yet, but it would clear—with fried fish and potatoes, which Sea'n called tubers, and skimmered home in the twilight, Cillian asleep already.

Once the well was done, and a good start made on trenching for the water pipes, Ruari had reluctantly to admit that he couldn’t put off his vacation assignment— _again_ —in favor of working with Sea'n at the cove. He finally settled to some serious study, though his mind still wandered out cove-wards—if not exactly about work. He definitely did not expect his day-dreaming out the window to turn toward nightmare as he caught sight of Róisín in the distance. 

Now, what was his twin doing here? She must want something—that was for sure. She didn’t come to the house, though, just passed on by. 

He had not spoken with her in a while, though Keela mentioned that she’d actually met Sea'n here, not long ago. She had even visited in search of him a couple of nights later—dressed up to the nines, Keela said with a sniff, just to ‘show Sea'n around a bit’. Ruari could easily guess what Róisín wanted Sea'n to see the most of. 

Keela had gotten rid of her, claiming Sea'n was a nomad who lived out in the wild—which should keep him safe enough, she told Ruari smugly. Everyone knew Róisín and the wild were not even on nodding terms.

So, she was interested in Sea'n and probably hell-bent on making a play for him. At the next dance, that would be—Keela said Sea'n intended coming, and she would know. Róisín would be present, of course—strutting about in one of her own creations, and as stunning as ever. As much as Ruari loved his twin, she had overshadowed him all their lives—always louder, more flamboyant, more beautiful, more _everything_ —and so often claiming what Ruari had quietly wanted for himself.

Restday eve was not so far off… Ruari had never lacked for partners at a dance, either here or at Landing, but he’d never gone _with_ someone—never had a partner to call his own. That glimpse of Roisin made up his mind for him.

After supper, he asked to borrow a skimmer to go visiting. Thankfully, his dad okayed it, asking no questions, and he fobbed Keela off with the tale of a friend at a nearby stake—which was not entirely untrue.

He brought the skimmer down in the center of the now very identifiable yard, before the rows of joists that would one day be their home. Sea'n was nowhere to be seen.

It was barely dusk as yet, though it might be growing dim inside the tent. No light showing through the nysyl sides, however, and the door was all closed up. It wasn’t _that_ late—surely Sea'n couldn’t have gone to bed already?

Ruari called his name—not loud enough to wake a sleeper who hadn’t heard the skimmer’s quiet descent. Loud enough for a response if Sea'n were not yet sleeping. There was no answer, only the rustle of foliage on a soft night breeze.

Of course, Sea'n might not _want_ to answer even if he were in there. There were other reasons a man might need his bed and some privacy. Ruari bit his lip, wondering. 

As quiet as ever he tried to be when he lay in bed with someone on his mind—most recently Sea'n, of course—Ruari could never completely quell his rhythmic breathing and the occasional escaping moan. He was most careful, both at Landing and at home here, to firmly close his bedroom door at night—at Landing he could even lock it. 

Out here, through a nysyl wall, such sounds would carry much farther. Ruari listened, one ear close up to the tent wall—half hoping, half ashamed—but he heard nothing, not even the rhythm of sleeping breaths. Sea'n must be down at the beach, still—maybe exercising the elusive Sam, whom Ruari had yet to meet despite his almost daily visits. 

He frowned. By what Keela said, when she came out here, she spent a lot of time swimming, often with Sea'n. And yet Sea'n had never suggested going out to the beach when Ruari was here, or that a swim might be the best means of getting rid of the sweat and grime they acquired while working

When they bathed, it was for that purpose only, half-clothed and always in the nearby stream that Sea'n had widened and deepened to form a useful pool, a short way inland from the house-place. Come to think of it, Ruari had never actually been to the beach with Sea'n. 

The first time he skimmered out he had brought swimwear in case, but a single look at Sea'n told him that wearing something so revealing would be a bad idea. Partly because he didn’t want Sea'n—all tan, muscular strength—to see what a pale, skinny body he had. Mostly because his reaction to even more of that gloriously sun-gilt skin would be all too obvious. 

Which meant that when he got really sweaty-dirty, he had to dawdle at some unnecessary task until Sea'n was done so he could wash up at the pool on his own. 

Well, if he caught Sea'n swimming now—either suited for it or without a stitch, which he couldn’t deny he was more than half hoping for—at least his pants were loose enough to hide the effect he knew it would have on him.

He strode along the winding path, noting the signs of recent overgrowth well-trimmed back. Sea'n had been busy even here. Ruari hoped whatever cure his Da was concocting for Sea'n’s people would work really well for them. Sea'n certainly worked hard enough here in return.

Ruari stepped from semi-shade into evening sunlight in time to see a fair of wild fire-lizards rise from the shallows. Following their upward flight he caught sudden sight—the same kind of out-of-nowhere appearance the fire-lizards would make—of a lone mote, way up in the sky and far higher than fire-lizards ever flew. But for that and the lower aerial antics of the little fair, he might have thought it _was_ a fire-lizard. It had to be bigger, though— _much_ bigger—and whatever it was, it was not only coming down, it was coming his way.

His first thought—that it must be a predatory wherry—and his second—an overgrown, mutant fire-lizard—seemed less and less likely as the shape grew ever larger. He might not be the vet student Padraig was, but even he knew mutation had its limits. Since the fire-lizards were unafraid, spiraling joyously up to meet the newcomer, he didn’t turn and run—another early and more urgent thought. Instead, he made a hasty retreat into shadow and continued to watch. 

It was the biggest animate creature he had ever seen—larger even than the largest sled, though shape and color still said bronze fire-lizard—and it was making for the cove. Ruari could not tear his eyes away. The lower and closer it came, the more certain he was that the current trajectory must bring it to land on the beach some way to his right—beyond the circle of stones that held the smoldering remains of a campfire.

He blinked—and realized the radically overgrown, bronze _not_ -fire-lizard bore a rider. Definitely no fire-lizard then, nor even the dragonet some folk called them. This was an honest to goodness, real life _dragon_.

A full size, no-longer-mythical version of the fire-breathing dragons he’d seen in holo-vids, and its rider… its rider had to be Sea'n.

Sea'n _Rider_ —of course!

The dragon landed and Ruari watched as Sea'n slid easily from its back with an affectionate slap to one huge shoulder. He tugged off helmet and jacket then, and made for the shadows where Ruari stood, transfixed. 

Not only was Sea'n all that Ruari desired, he could _ride_ a _dragon_. He could somehow control a beast as huge and magnificent as that. The very thought of it caught Ruari’s breath in his throat and made his knees shamefully weak.

‘Ruari?’ Sea'n’s call was tentative. Maybe the dragon had warned him they had company. Maybe he was worried Ruari might take to his heels in a blue funk.

‘H-hi,’ he stuttered. 

Sea'n couldn’t know it but, right then, Ruari couldn’t have gotten any distance at all, though he did just shuffle out of shadow to slump down on the nearest rock. He realized his mouth was open and closed it with a snap, hoping Sea'n wouldn’t notice the effect the revelation was having on him in other places, too.

Maybe Sea'n would think he was in shock? Which he was, but as much at sight of the rider as his dragon. Hair sun-lightened, tan showing off a wide white smile, compact body coming casually toward Ruari as if commanding—let alone actually _flying_ —a vast, _fire-breathing dragon_ were as commonplace as piloting a skimmer. 

At least, Ruari assumed it could breathe fire—they always did in fantasy vids.

If he had been smitten before, this concealed strength, this casual dominance simply sealed Ruari’s complete adoration. A man so confident, so self-contained, no matter why he was here, where he was from or why he hadn’t told Ruari of this dragon before… 

Forget smitten—this was far more head-over-heels.

‘So—so this is the ride that cannot be left for long, then?’ he managed, as Sea'n came closer. 

He smiled in case Sea'n thought him angry at being kept out of the loop. Which he was, a little, but more hurt that Sea'n hadn’t trusted him as he obviously trusted his father and Keela. 

Now he thought about it, the looks the two exchanged each time he came home from the cove made it pretty clear they knew about this—about _Sea'n’s dragon_. One thing was for sure, it could not be dangerous or Jothan would never have allowed Keela out here alone with it and Sea'n as often as Ruari knew she was.

Sea'n held out his hand, took Ruari’s and squeezed as much as shook it. ‘I thank you for not panicking,’ he said, ‘I have wanted to tell you every day we worked together, but my life and future may depend on as few people as possible knowing of Sammath’s existence here, or mine.’

‘Sammath, not Sam? That’s,’ Ruari waved a hand toward the great beast, ‘ _him_ —the dragon? _Your_ dragon? He has a name? Of course he has a name, what am I thinking? Where did you get him? You can’t have found an egg _that_ big on the beach. How do you—’ he realized he was babbling yet again and clamped down on all the other questions fighting to get out.

Sea'n only laughed. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘you must meet him.’

The thought of _meeting_ something that big—and potentially lethal—instantly restored Ruari’s physical ability to walk. Nonetheless, he followed Sea'n along the shore, being careful to stay behind him. He stopped at once when Sea'n did—rather closer to the huge muzzle than Ruari thought wise, remembering the whole _fire-breathing_ thing.

Somehow, the up-close looking—and the touch that proved more suede-like than anything Ruari could ever have expected—helped him to accept the rest. 

Ruari was speechless with wonder and delight—and all those throat-clogging questions, still determined to get asked.

Sea'n grinned at him. ‘So, what would you like to know first?’

‘Everything!’ Ruari managed.

The revelations lasted right through supper, back at the tent—a thick stew of wherry meat that Ruari shared, seasoned with spices he didn’t think Sea'n would know. ‘This is good,’ he commented. ‘I don’t think I’ve had it flavored with meget seed before. Do you cook a lot back at the Weyr?’ He tasted the unfamiliar word on his tongue. 

‘No, not at all—but Candessa, our head cook, showed me a few things before I left. She wanted to be sure I would eat properly here in the past!’ 

The most stunning revelation, of course, _was_ the fact that Sea'n had traveled maybe hundreds of years through time to be here. After that, none of the differences between Sea'n’s time and his own could have surprised Ruari, as Sea'n satisfied his suddenly rampant need to know. He could even accept the reason Da and Keela had kept Sea'n and Sammath so secret, even from him.

But accept that Sea'n had a _male_ partner waiting for him at home rather than the beautiful cailín of Ruari’s imagining? Not so much.

Especially when Sea'n brought out the plasglas-protected drawing he kept safe in the tent’s inner compartment, and Ruari saw that Elijah was also beautiful. He too was a dragonrider, said Sea'n. His queen was called Frideth and was Sammath’s mate. 

How unfair could life be? Sea'n was also a lover of men and _still_ would not want boring Ruari, who hadn’t even a fire-lizard to his name, much less a magnificent dragon.

Not even for the time he was here? Da had mentioned that he’d made great progress with the solution to Sea'n’s problem and it would likely be complete and ready to go by next Restday. The thought that Sea'n might soon be leaving—not only Ruari’s vicinity but his entire lifespan—gave him the courage to finally ask what he had come here for tonight.

Sea'n gave him the opening. ‘It is late for you to visit,’ he said. ‘There was something you wanted?’ There was humor in his tone but a smidge of wariness, too.

‘I—I came…’ This was going to be harder than he thought. ‘I was going to ask… that is, I wanted to know if you…ifyouwouldcometothenextRestdayevedancewithme?’ 

It came out in a gabble, so it was lucky Sea'n seemed proficient in Idiotese.

‘I am already invited to attend—Jothan, or perhaps Keela, shall collect me,’ he said calmly.

‘Not what I meant,’ Ruari muttered, knowing he’d bungled it already. ‘I meant like a—a—’ He scrambled through his mind for the old word _date_ before he remembered it was unlikely to mean a thing to Sea'n if it was mostly out of use in his own time already.

‘No, I meant _with_ me. As—as my partner?’ He read Sea'n’s answer in his face but couldn’t help pleading, ‘Just—just while you’re here in _my_ time?’

Sea'n shook his head. ‘Even that would be unfair to you, Ruari,’ he said. ‘It would mark you as taken, when you are not.’

‘And you completely are, I know,’ Ruari said dully. ‘You must miss him…’ He had heard Róisín run this line often enough to infuse it with invitation, but he could not do it. He would be doing his best to inveigle Sea'n into being unfaithful to Elijah. The realization made him feel as slutty as his twin.

Sea'n knew it too, but he only smiled. ‘More than you can know,’ he said. ‘Frideth and Sammath are as mated as Elijah and I, so you must see, Ruari, that as much as I miss him— _because_ I miss him—I can offer you only friendship for the time that I am here.’

Ruari worried that things might become awkward between them after that, but they were not. Sea'n was just as easy to work beside—they were clearing and fencing some of the outer fields, now. The only difference was having even more to talk about, with Sea'n willingly answering every single question Ruari could think of about his own time. It gave Ruari an uncomfortable insight into what it must be like to live when available technology seemed limited to wind, water and the anvil. 

‘Wouldn’t you want our tech for your people, Sea'n?’

Sea'n shook his head. ‘You have so many things here that I have never seen—never even knew could exist. Marvels whose workings I cannot hope to fathom. It makes me feel as ignorant as any child who has never seen the sails of a windmill turn, or a river tamed to grind grain into flour for his bread. You should be thankful I do not wander around with my mouth open in amazement all of the time!’

‘You could learn—we could give you books, tools, basic manuals,’ Ruari said, barely restraining himself from offering to return with Sea'n. From what he had heard of their Craft Masters though, they would be unlikely even to grant an interview to a stranger his age, much less listen to anything he might have to say. And then, of course there was Elijah…

Anyway, where on earth—or on Pern—would you even _begin_ introducing technology to a society seemingly stuck way back in Earth’s Middle Ages?

‘I thank you for the thought, but they would only confuse us more. Your books would tell of wonders beyond anything we have dreamed, let alone anything we could hope to achieve. I shall remember all that is possible and perhaps find harpers who will take the ideas to those who can make a few of them work—the easier ones, at least!’

‘But—’ 

‘No, Ruari. Combating Thread and keeping food in the bellies of the children of Pern is work enough. I doubt we should spare time from that to chase dreams of a forgotten time. Perhaps when the Pass ends…’ He shrugged. 

There it was—the hint that Sea'n and Sammath might one day be defeated by the blind malevolence of the entity he called Thread. 

‘You shall survive—you _have_ to!’ Ruari could not hide his desperation at the thought that Sea'n might not.

Da seemed to think a lack of tech kept Sea'n’s people in thrall to something that could be solved here and now. Ruari was not so sure. If they had, would Sea'n even _be_ here now? 

He had abandoned his vacation project as trivial in face of the need to design ways of arming skimmers and sleds with flamethrowers against the coming menace. Da, he knew, was researching inorganic, readily synthesized compounds to impregnate the building slabs Sea'n had warned were lethally unsafe.

Soon after came a day when Sea'n was not at work in the meadow when Ruari skimmered in. He landed on the beach instead, surprised to find Sea'n in his flying gear. Did Sea'n not want him here today? 

But then he turned and held out his hand. ‘Come, Ruari,’ he said. ‘Sammath’s wings are strong enough to bear both of us at last.’

For an instant, Ruari stood stock still. He had wondered what it would be like to fly on Sammath—of course he had. But he had never dreamed that Sea'n would offer—

Sea'n seemed to take his hesitation for reluctance, and his smile faded. 

‘Now?’ Ruari said weakly. 

‘You don’t want to?’ Sea'n was definitely disappointed.

‘Are you kidding? Of course I want to—I just never expected…Wow, thanks!’ 

He rushed forward to meet Sea'n’s renewed smile and barely stopped himself from hugging him—or more.


	40. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

Sammath had been flying for some days already before Ruari surprised them in flight.

When Sea'n’s daily inspection was finally satisfied—Sammath’s damaged skin no longer clinging wetly to the weed-soaked fabric, but newly healed and separate of itself beneath the upper coat of oil—the bronze was so eager to fly that he took off, at once and alone.

‘SAMMATH!’ Sea'n roared aloud in his shock, but he had barely time to summon words for a tongue-lashing before Sammath glided back to the ground. 

_My wings ache!_ Sammath sounded shocked, and perhaps even a bit pitiful.

_Of course they do—as my legs would ache if I tried to run when I had not used my running muscles in a while! Let me see._

He scrambled frantically over the sand to where Sammath lay wingspread and exhausted. His biggest worry—that newly healed skin might have given way, tearing open once more—was thankfully unfounded. 

_Stay here_ , he ordered, though it seemed unlikely Sammath would move anywhere for some time. There was not much left of the oil Elijah had sent with them, but Sea'n re-coated the patches of new skin, and pronounced himself relieved before proceeding to scold Sammath for his reckless attempt at flight.

 _I needed to get off the ground, just for a little while!_ The bronze might be sorry to upset his rider, not so much for how he had caused it.

 _Several short flights every day—just a little longer in the air each time—and your wings will grow strong again,_ Sea'n told him, and he grinned. _‘Patience!’ is what Elijah tells his patients, and that’s exactly what he would tell you, too!_

He still ached to be home with Elijah, but the growing friendship with Ruari did much to ease the loneliness. Work on the O'Brien homestead seemed to go faster than ever as each of them asked and answered questions about life on a Pern the other would never know. 

Mindful of the feelings he knew Ruari still harbored, Sea'n did not name Elijah more often than was truly necessary. Ruari need never know that every one of Sea'n’s memories of Weyr life conjured his weyrmate for him—and somehow, remembering Elijah no longer hurt quite as much as it helped.

Patience worked as well as Sea'n foretold, and Sammath’s wings soon grew to be as strong as ever. Even the wider wounds had mended themselves, the skin smooth and pliant once more, thanks in no small measure to Jothan’s generous replenishment of their oil supplies. 

They had both missed flying, of course they had, but only with Sammath under him soaring confidently into the sky once more, did Sea'n fully understand what a huge deprivation it had been. Together they reclaimed the sheer joy of flight, riding warm air currents high toward the sun, swooping breathlessly back to skim the waves until Sammath landed them once more at the cove.

Sea'n developed the habit of flying at dawn and dusk only, hoping to avoid notice that way. Life became far easier for him with the bronze able to hunt for himself again. They discovered an area not too far away, even flying straight, where wherries roosted in great numbers. Sammath gladly renounced his diet of fish, though Sea'n still brought out the synnet for himself occasionally.

With only himself to feed, now—fresh-caught fish griddled over his fire, perhaps, or the occasional spit-roast flier, his few remaining tubers, and fruit from the surrounding trees—Sea'n ate well enough that he didn’t miss Candessa’s cooking. Not much, anyway. 

The fresh foods she had provided were long since eaten of course, though the sacks of flour and oatmeal were holding up—almost literally, hung as they were from branches to keep out tunnel snakes. After only a couple of disasters, he rediscovered the skill of making flatbread on a hot stone, and bread-wrapped fish became one of his favorite meals. 

The O'Briens brought different packets of camp foods for him to try. Most required only heating or perhaps mixing with water first. Sea'n had tried one or two but he truly preferred knowing what his food started out as. And, as he had told Elijah—in what he thought of as his other life, now—he would rather not be _too_ beholden to the people of this time.

The evening Ruari discovered them in flight was, in fact, their first experience of _between_ since the day Sammath splashed down into the cove, too badly injured to fly farther. 

It was not a planned attempt. They were high up and way out to sea when Sammath spotted a fishing boat far below. Jothan had warned Sea'n about devices called binoculars that enabled men to see almost as far as dragons. The quick skip _between_ to avoid danger was second nature to both rider and bronze, though the only danger here was that of discovery. 

Sea'n only realized what they had done when utter cold and darkness closed around him. His fear was illogical, he knew, yet those few short moments felt endless, plunging him right back into the fear—and paralyzing near-panic—of their flight through time. 

_Sammath!_

_Sea'n?_

Sammath’s voice was quite calm as they emerged once more into light and air and warmth above the cove, the circle of Sea'n’s cookfire ashes clearly visible against white sand. The bronze was unaffected by the transition through _between_ , if concerned by Sea'n’s momentary fright. He simply glided in to land as from any other of their flights. He even warned Sea'n of the boy’s presence at the tree-line.

Ruari’s half-jesting question, his quick acceptance of the bronze and willingness not only to approach but to touch, settled Sea'n’s still rapidly beating heart.

There was no such distraction to quell the familiarity of arms clasped about him when he invited Ruari to fly with him on Sammath. It was a comfort Sea'n did not know he had missed. 

He advised Ruari to hold onto his belt, prior to take-off, but with the first downsweep of Sammath’s huge wings, Ruari lurched forward and plastered himself against Sea'n’s back. It was not quite a hug, since they were not sharing a neckridge, but it was the closest contact Sea'n had had with another warm body since the day he left Elijah high above the beginnings of the Great Dunto River. Sea'n would have been a liar to deny how much he appreciated it.

He enjoyed Ruari’s reaction to unfettered flight. He did not scream from fear—or even in wild enthusiasm as Saben had on his first flight. Instead, he clung to Sea'n’s back, quivering with suppressed excitement—Sea'n remembered doing much the same himself, behind X’var when Simneth had Searched him for Igen Weyr. 

Ruari had a great deal of steadiness in the air, Sea'n thought, and hoped that he would be put to the egg when this time had dragons of its own. He had the makings of a rider—not bronze, his nature was not sufficiently forceful. Possibly brown or blue, but more likely green. He brought Pr'len to mind—a young and unsure Pr'len, before life made him into who he was when Sea'n had left their time.

It was a short flight only—around the cove and back to the beach. Sammath had flown already and returned through _between_. Sea'n did not want to tire him. 

As Sammath back-winged in to land, Ruari shouted in Sea'n’s ear. ‘Thank you, that was wonderful! _So_ much more exciting than a skimmer!’

‘Can I ask you not to mention it to Jothan and Keela? I would like it to be a surprise when they come out tomorrow.’

‘Of course!’ Ruari’s face was one huge smile. ‘Better make yourself some earplugs tonight, though—Keela will scream, I know she will!’

Father and daughter arrived at the cove the following afternoon with both Ruari and Cillian in tow, which Sea'n had not expected. He was already in his flying gear.

Keela’s eyes went wide. She did not directly ask, but she didn’t have to. Sea'n could never have resisted the silent pleading in her face even if he hadn’t planned this, let alone the way she reminded him of Saben in the lively, buoyant character they shared. 

‘Well, Keela O'Brien,’ he teased, ‘I hope I haven’t just spent _days_ fashioning extra riding straps out of wher-hide rescued from Sammath’s appetite, scraping them clean and oiling them _just for you_ , only to be told you don’t want to ride after all?’ 

This was not entirely true. Sea'n’s own straps had needed replacement—cold-hardened and brittle, they were unsafe for re-use after the long flight _between_. But he had known from the start that the O'Briens would want to ride, and that he owed it to them at least once. 

He knew too that Jothan was almost as concerned about safety as he was himself, and having heard the sad tale of Rissa O'Brien, he was not really surprised. He would never have suggested taking Keela on even the shortest flight without straps, and had made extras in her size in addition to the ones Ruari had already used. 

The smile she gave him was worth every minute of the work. ‘Oh—may I really? _Thank_ you!’ 

‘Of course—and you too, Jothan, if you will?’ When Jothan looked instead toward his son, Ruari confessed that he had already experienced the treat. Keela pouted a bit at not being first, but quickly forgot her pique in the anticipation of finally flying aboard Sammath.

Jothan nodded. ‘I’d love to—but we’ll not be going _between_ , shall we? I don’t think Keela should do that, though I’d like to experience it sometime, if you’re willing.’

‘I do not think that would be wise,’ said Sea'n. He was not about to confess that he and Sammath had spent the early morning flitting in and out of _between_ to conquer his own ongoing reluctance. It took a while before he could again accept it for the commonplace it had been since he was a weyrling.

Cillian had ignored Sammath completely in favor of splashing in the shallows, but as soon as his father and sister scrambled up onto Sammath’s back, he began to wail. Jothan reluctantly made to climb down again but Ruari waved him to stay, picking Cillian up and making faces at him. The toddler laughed instead, forgetting his complaint, and when Jothan nodded, Sea'n made doubly sure all straps were secure. 

When they took off at last, Ruari was proved quite right, though Keela was not alone in her screaming. Nor was Sea'n the only one startled by all the whooping and cheering behind him.

_Why do they cry out so, Sea'n? The boy did not. Are they frightened? Shall I land?_

_No, Ruari warned me that this might be their way of enjoying it!_ Ruari’s way had been far different. He had clung to Sea'n like— _very_ like a desperate lover, Sea'n knew. 

Ruari stood with Cillian balanced on his hip as Sammath made the same short flight as Ruari took before gliding back to land. Sea'n noticed him watching them through something slim and black, held up to his eye—the binocular device, he assumed.

As Sea'n skimmered home with the family for the Restday meal, Ruari promised a surprise. Keela was clearly in on the secret, squirming almost as restlessly as Cillian in the back seat, her eyes alight with the secret.

‘No need to worry about anyone seeing you today, Sea'n,’ Jothan reassured him, ‘there’s a barbecue out at the beach this afternoon and people are either there or off working on their own stakes.’

They landed by the labs today and the O'Briens hurried Sea'n into a big room that Ruari said was a lecture theatre like the one he attended at Landing. All the seats faced what looked like one of Jothan’s terminals, made huge.

‘You’re sort of right about that,’ said Jothan when Sea'n mentioned it. ‘We figured so much power and grace demanded appreciation on the largest scale.’

That meant nothing to Sea'n until the vast screen lit up and Keela, who had been practically jumping up and down with impatience as Ruari connected the black thing into a keyboard and tapped out a few letters, suddenly gasped aloud. 

Cillian clearly recognized the enormous picture of a bronze dragon. He squealed and pointed but Sea'n simply stared in amazement. It was not quite life-size, of course, but many times too big to be mistaken for a picture of a fire-lizard, not to mention it had riders aboard. 

When Ruari set the picture in motion, Cillian squealed again and Sea'n’s mouth literally fell open. 

‘What is this? How can you have pictures of a dragon—one of your _vids_ —when you do not have dragons?’

‘Neat, huh?’ Keela exclaimed, as they watched the great bronze circle the bay, then come smoothly to land on the curve of white sand.

‘Sea'n, that’s you—you and Da and Keela on Sammath! I brought the vid cam out, so you could see what you look like. And watch, now…’ 

Ruari tapped the keyboard again and suddenly Keela’s face filled almost the whole screen, Jothan’s jacket just visible behind her. She was clearly screaming with excitement and joy.

When Jothan looked across at him, Sea'n grinned. ‘It is good to see such happiness,’ he said. ‘I remember Saben, the first time we flew him—he screamed, too, but then,’ he cocked a mischievous brow at Jothan, ‘so did you!’

Jothan nodded, not at all fazed to have been as excited as Keela. ‘I think riding a dragon is about the most exciting thing I shall ever do in my entire life,’ he said. ‘It leaves mechanized travel standing!’

When he landed the skimmer back at the cove, later that afternoon, Jothan had a question. ‘Say, Sea'n—what’s _between_ really like?’ He had insisted on leaving his family behind, and Sea'n figured this was why.

‘Are you sure you wish to know?’ 

‘Well,’ Jothan said confidently, ‘I reckon it’s just sensory deprivation on the wide scale, but I’d sure like to know for certain.’

Sea'n took him at his word, though he made extra sure that the riding straps were secure about his passenger. When they emerged from _between_ above the opposite arm of the cove, Jothan‘s hands still clung hard to Sea'n’s riding belt. He was pale and shaking—and not just from the brief cold.

‘I have no idea how you managed to stay sane in that…that _nothing_ for so long, Sea'n, even with all your furs and your hot stones. Knowing what to expect—and even being able to give it a fancy name—does _not_ make it any less scary!’

It did not. Though Sea'n had never been scared of _between_ , he had yet to venture there except as a return to their cove—a fixed place within a known time, with small chance of getting lost along the way. 

It would be a whole different thing to summon up the courage to give Sammath the mental picture of a place he knew well in his time, and yet anchor it firmly in _this_ time. 

He knew he must overcome his fear of getting lost _between_ —a fear he knew to be mostly irrational, since Sammath had never yet failed to bring them where they needed to be—and he must do so soon, or remain forever trapped here in the past.

From high in the air, the tip of Nerat—which Jothan said was neither explored nor even named as yet—could not be mistaken for any other place on Pern. Sea'n understood the inherent danger and was very careful to specify the position of the sun—only a fraction further down in the sky than when they left the cove. His belly clenched the whole time they hung suspended in the dark.

 _Are we still in Jothan’s time?_ he demanded urgently as they emerged after what had seemed an age _between._

 _Of course,_ said Sammath, who did not understand the problem. _You showed me where to come and I came._

 _Right—so, back to the cove then._ Even with cove and sun still fixed firmly in his mind, Sea'n breathed easily only when he saw the shirt he had left spread on the sands to dry, both to dry and to signal a successful return.

He had proved that it could be done, and he was, in truth, impatient to see the land he knew—had known—so well. To see it in its natural state, before holds were built, fields were tilled, or forests raised, tended and protected.

Sammath had said, their first night here, that the Weyrs were all empty of life, that even Fort Hold—first occupied of all, so the harpers sang—was still only a cave as yet. 

Unsure just how much these places may have changed—possibly enough that Sammath could not recognize them from his memories—he asked Jothan to show him the pictures this time kept inside its terminals, however that wonder was accomplished.

The whole of Pern was there, in images Jothan could make bigger or smaller at will—so big, indeed, that Sea'n could identify not only the vast craters that had become the Weyrs, but the far smaller outcropping ridge that sheltered the hold of his birth. Of later holds that must have their stone quarried and brought at need there was, of course, no trace. But the older, larger holds were cut into the natural rock outcrops, and the absence of fire heights was little barrier to recognition. 

For safety, Jothan said, he made pictures Sea'n could bring with him—no, ‘printouts’ he called them—for the location of each Weyr. With these, he could safely direct Sammath in this time without risk of a fatal straying toward their own. The first couple of flights, he still found himself tensing through every moment of _between_ , until light and air quickly greeted them once more. But again, it was his confidence that needed reclaiming not Sammath’s, for the great bronze never faltered. 

‘Keep away from the Big Island,’ Jothan advised when he handed over the printouts—though as far as Sea'n was concerned, the image in his hand showed Ista. ‘As far as I know it’s been staked, and there was talk of a natural harbor there, so there could be boats up that way, too. Anywhere else on the northern continent should be pretty much empty.’

‘Which is most strange,’ commented Sea'n. ‘In my time, I would be telling you to avoid the south as completely empty and Thread-bared—or so it is believed!’ 

‘Seems odd we’d all move north,’ Jothan said, frowning. ‘Even the weather’s better down here!’

To Sea'n it was perfectly understandable in terms of shelter from Thread, and the demands of dragons. The only things the south seemed to lack—judging from Jothan’s aerial pictures—were caves suitable for Weyrs and the major holds they protected. 

With these images and the freedom of _between_ , Sammath roamed the northern continent for Sea'n, showing him the twin-cratered site that would one day become Benden Weyr, the spiky-peaked High Reaches, Igen’s sandy, mid-eastern peninsula—and lastly Telgar.

He took Ruari along on more than one of his forays into the past of his future. The places he had known as bustling holds were merely sites, devoid even of livestock, barring the ubiquitous wherry. It was good to have company and fun to have Sammath swoop low over a future hold as he described for Ruari what would one day occupy the empty spaces. A stopover to eat in places he knew well was always a good time to tell about the people who would live there.

He left Telgar till last on purpose, and he did not take Ruari with him that day.

He needed no printout to find Telgar, only to show Sammath the wide and changeable delta of the Great Dunto River. When they emerged again into sunlight, Sea'n directed him to fly straight along its course—past the cliff face where the hold would one day be carved, watching the river dwindle until it was little more than a broad stream. They left it to turn north—and there was the Weyr, its great peak unmistakable no matter the intervening turns.

When Sammath swooped within, Sea'n could only marvel at the differences that would be wrought by Jothan’s people and their machines. The hollowing out of already cleft and pitted rock into habitable weyrs, into rooms and caverns for living. What would in time become Frideth’s weyr was far smaller then—cramped, and without a bathing room, of course, and with no staircase entrance at its inner end. Her ledge was barely big enough for Sammath, let alone bronze and queen together.

Sea'n snorted a laugh at himself.

_Sea'n?_

_It is nothing, only…I had thought coming here might…_ He shook his head. Whatever comfort he had hoped to find, it was not here.

He knew quite well why he would not bring Ruari to this place. He was as aware of Ruari’s infatuation with him as of the sister’s far less innocent interest—he had too much experience of green-riders not to be. 

But where Roisin would make an ideal green-rider, boldly insistent and utterly without reserve, Ruari resembled a boy who had Impressed green and was as yet ambivalent about it. The link with his dragon told him she wanted and needed to be flown, but he was not entirely sure he wanted any rider to take _him_. Unless, in Ruari’s case, it could be Sea'n.

Sea'n could not deny he had grown quite fond of the boy—and only one other boy had ever attracted him in such a way. The one with whom he had shared—would again share—this weyr.

There was so much of Elijah about Ruari. Their age, the not-quite finished, coltish grace, the way sunlight struck copper sparks from amid dark hair. Both were practical and quick-minded—witness Elijah’s novel use of ice to treat Threadscore, and Ruari’s speedy replacement of hard labor with the convenience of a float pallet for shifting spoil. 

They even had music in common, though Ruari played something called a fiddle—which Sea'n had neither seen nor heard, for it was left at Landing—where Elijah’s instrument was the gitar and his greater skill lay in composition.

And maybe Sea'n looked for such similarities, as he had searched for comfort in this place. He missed Elijah so much, and Ruari’s companionship—the warmth of his touch at Sea'n’s back as they rose aboard Sammath—had warmed him through as nothing else since he arrived in this time. 

Nothing would come of it, no matter what either side might want or need. Nothing _could_ come of it, for Elijah was waiting, all those years in the future—as Sea'n waited, fretting, here in the past.

Well before Jothan had completed his cure, Sea'n knew Sammath’s wings—and his own confidence—would sustain the long dark cold of _between_ for their journey home. His impatience for the work to be finished was growing by the day, though he could never say so to Jothan.

Soon enough he found his own anxiety had become Sammath’s—and with better reason. He woke with the dawn, Sammath’s disquiet fiercely tugging at his mind.

_Sammath?_

_Frideth will rise very soon now, I know it._

Sea'n was stunned. _You_ know _it? How can you know it, from so many turns away?_

 _She is my mate. I feel it even though I do not hear her._ Sammath sounded as surprised as Sea'n felt.

_Can you fly to that when?_

_I can fly there when it has happened, not until then._

_Once Frideth has risen, you will know where to find her?_

_A bronze can always find a queen of his Weyr. More than that, she is my mate. I shall know, but I cannot fly so far through time and hope then to catch her. I shall not then be strong enough._ Within Sea'n’s mind, his dragon’s tone was disconsolate.

Of course. Even without the burns, Sammath was in no state for further flying when they arrived in this time. He would have needed hours of sleep as well as a full meal—and the time to digest it—before taking even the most mundane of flights. When it came to competing against other bronzes—all eager to catch a queen whose resistance would be no tease but a real and desperate thing—he would not stand a hatchling’s chance in Fall, having flown so far already.

Until now, Sea'n had managed somehow to stifle the thought that Frideth may rise to mate while Sammath and he were tethered here in the past. If it happened, it happened. He had thought they would not know—and if it did, there was nothing he or Sammath could do, from so long and far away. 

But if Sammath felt such conviction now, it must surely mean she had not risen while they had been here.

 _She has not but she will, and soon. And I shall be unable to fly her! Frideth will fly in good earnest if we are not there, Sea'n. She will not wish to be caught. Elijah will not want any other rider_. His tone fell from disconsolate to despairing.

Sea'n’s own anxiety returned full force. He could not deceive himself that when the one true-breeding queen rose again, she would be anything other than the greatest prize any bronze and his rider could desire. 

Her flight was certain to include the best bronzes from every Weyr on Pern—flying for Frideth, yes, but maybe not for Elijah. Not every rider mated males, and those that did would be accustomed to green-rider males. They would take Elijah as if he were one of them, when Elijah had not their instincts—nor their responses, either. His dragon’s need was to fly Frideth, but all Sea'n wanted was Elijah—and if Sammath could not be there in time…

But, Jothan had promised a different and easier return. A way to make that one, unending blackness not such an endless nightmare after all, he said—and Jothan kept his promises.

Sea'n quickly soothed his dragon. _Jothan has a way we can return by smaller stages. You shall have time to rest and eat before you need fly for her._

‘We can’t have you staying in _between_ for so long at a time!’ Jothan had said, after his brief experience of its vast, cold emptiness.

‘No?’ Sea'n was unsure what he meant.

‘You brought a constellation map—an accurate drawing of the stars the night before you left—so you can get home, right? Well, the program the astrogators used to get us here can plot stars anywhere, on any night of any year. When I feed your map in, we’ll know just when and where you came from.

‘What we can do then is plot all the years that Passes fell due, between your time and ours. We can avoid those and make printouts of nights it’ll be safe for you to land there. If you make maybe a dozen stops along the way, you can stoke yourself and Sammath up on food, warm the stones—though you won’t get anywhere near as cold if you’re only _between_ for shorter hops.’ 

‘That would be a relief,’ Sea'n admitted. As desperate as he was to get back to his own time, he was not looking forward to the bleak, unending void that lay between now and then.

‘I should be able to lay hands on a proper breather, too—truthfully, I’m amazed you survived at all, sucking up the stuff in that bag! What you could really use, of course, is a space suit, but we left them all up aloft.’ Jothan waved skyward, the way he always did when speaking their mysterious arrival on Pern. ‘But, a facemask’s doable—so you won’t have to travel home with your nose in a pinch!’

Keela had laughed uproariously when Sea'n showed her the many layers he had worn to travel back through time, demonstrating his girth with widespread arms, topping it with the singed remnant of his furry hood and Elijah’s cautious clothespin. For once, he could show off one of his time’s ‘gadgets’—even if it was no more than a short length of wood, split and shaped, bound tight by a thin metal band. In this time, all such things must be made of the ubiquitous plastics, of course—if they existed at all. 

Maybe, he thought, he would leave Keela that clothespin if he truly would not need it.

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



	41. Success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I am no scientist—please suspend all the belief you can spare
> 
> 2\. Re: Jothan’s personal memory device. _Dragonsdawn_ contains no such thing, of course—how could it when flash drives did not exist in 1988? But the Pern colonists surely _would_ have possessed these useful articles in the far future!
> 
> **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…a marker gene for dragon-riding…_

[](http://www.statcounter.com/) Jothan’s gut feeling told him it could be done, right from the start. Well, if honking great dragons could be conjured out of tiny fire-lizards—and Sammath was proof they _had_ —the small matter of fixing their breeding problems should be a cinch. Wishful thinking back then, maybe, but by now he was really getting somewhere. 

It was just a pity he couldn’t have been on hand to oversee the samples being taken. It would have saved him a whole lot of scut work if they’d been separated before freezing. Not that Sea'n’s people would have had the least idea how to do that, let alone how to preserve the results in a sterile manner. Even their test tubes were hand-blown glass, for fraksake!

At least the whole blood was unadulterated, and had been frozen fast. But it still meant he couldn’t risk working on more than a couple of samples at a time. Not if he wanted to rely on getting viable data from them. Switching to and fro between the same tasks over and again made everything take twice as long—or at least it felt that way. 

Like Keela said, an extra pair of hands—a lab assistant—might have been a good idea. _If_ he could have trusted one with Sea'n’s secret, which he didn’t. He had thought about asking Sea'n to do these routine tasks for him, having noticed how deft Sea'n’s hands could be at need. He certainly picked tasks up fast enough when shown. 

But, even setting aside time wasted bringing and taking him back—he knew Sea'n would never consent to stay over, because of leaving Sammath—having him about the place that often wasn’t such a good idea. There was plenty of female interest already on days when he visited, and guys could be just as nosy if something was up in their faces.

He’d gotten on pretty well anyway, single-handed. Long before all the samples were thawed, separated and their components analyzed, he had a tentative theory to pursue alongside his remaining scut work.

He had begun with those whom Sea'n called weyrfolk—women who lived and worked in Sea'n’s own Weyr but did not ride dragons. A quick check with local records proved that all but one of those samples could have been obtained from any female living here and now.

Moving on to the riders, he decided it made most sense to examine their samples alongside their dragons’. By what Sea'n said of the close connection between the two, he was expecting a genetic congruence between woman and dragon, and quickly found his assumption confirmed. Anticipating the same concordance between the one guy and his dragon, though, was where he found the anomaly that required investigation.

When—alphabetically by rider, even great curiosity being no excuse for arbitrary and illogical procedures—he matched the blood sample labeled _Elijah, gold Frideth’s rider - Telgar_ , to the ichor from _Frideth, gold, Elijah’s queen - Telgar_ , he noted the differences at once. 

Not merely the chromosomal confirmation that Elijah was wholly male, but actual deviations in alignment at the cellular level between human and dragon he’d come to expect. Different again from the congruence he had already noted in the eight queen and rider pairs previously analyzed—which were beginning to form a control group of a type he hadn’t reckoned on finding.

‘When you get home,’ he told Sea'n, soon after he began the work, ‘you must thank Elijah from me for including samples from non-riders, too. They let me identify the normal state of affairs for ordinary people—what we call the control group. Yours and Sammath’s were controls of a kind too, though for different identifiers.’ 

He thought it best not to mention, as yet, this further group he’d found, its singular status a pointer he could not ignore.

‘Plus, Sammath’s showed me exactly what ichor should look like under a ’scope, and whether freezing itself affected it, which it didn’t. But, the differences between people are really _most_ interesting—there actually seems to be a marker gene for dragon-riding!’ 

Sea'n raised both brows—equal parts surprise and enquiry. One alone usually meant he had no real idea what Jothan was talking about—or Keela, either, for that matter. The guy was never afraid to admit to ignorance of the strange new world in which he found himself—or to learn from it. It was a trait Jothan had come to admire.

‘There is a single gene—a very tiny indication in the blood,’ he clarified, even before Sea'n could raise the brow, ‘that you riders seem to be born with, to some degree. The allele marker is notably less dominant in the two green-rider samples than in those who ride queens—and it is completely absent from all but one of the batch from those you call weyrfolk.’

‘Who is the one?’ Trust Sea'n to take baffling complexities in stride and move on to the practical.

Jothan scrolled his cursor down the relevant column of data until he reached the exception. ‘Lysdar—you know her? The marker in her sample is on a level with that in green-rider blood.’

‘Lysdar,’ Sea'n mused aloud, frowning as he thought back to his time. ‘I think Maruth found her on Search. She was a candidate at Frideth’s last clutch for Telgar. But she didn’t Impress then—still hadn’t when I left.’ He gave the shrug Jothan knew meant he was trying not to think about how long he might have been absent, and what may have happened in the interim.

‘Toranith chose Ciala, and the greens had plenty of other choices, so Lysdar missed out. She stood to Conireth’s and Belteth’s clutches since then, but there weren’t many hatchlings between the two. Only a handful were greens, and obviously she wasn’t chosen. She’s young yet, though—or at least, she was…’ he added, unable to avoid the thought now. ‘There should be other clutches before her days as a candidate are—or were—over. You think this means she shall Impress, some day?’ 

‘If she lived here and now, Joel would be running a book on it—uh, offering odds on it?’ he amended to the questioning brow.

‘Ah!’ Sea'n nodded his understanding. ‘I shall remember that, and maybe risk a mark or two myself if she has not yet Impressed when I return. A green, you think?’

Jothan laughed. ‘I reckon so—look on it as a mite of compensation for all you’ve risked for other folk! I could be wrong, though, so I wouldn’t bet the farm on it—wager too much,’ he clarified, as the brow of enquiry returned. You’ll be safe enough just betting she’ll get a dragon of whichever color. It’s good to know some things will never change!’ he added with another laugh.

The whole time Sea'n was around, Jothan was aware how twitchy he was getting, though he never spoke an impatient word. The intricacies—and complications—of blood analysis might be a closed book to him, but he knew the value of allowing a specialist to work without hassle. 

Sea'n’s people were reduced to believing only in those things they could see, taste, touch, and so on. Their world—and therefore the limit to their knowledge—was completely experiential, empirical. From what Jothan gathered, experimental techniques were discouraged at the least, undervalued at best. 

He was pretty well convinced by now that Sea'n had to be a great deal more open-minded than most, if not all the rest of his people. The machines, gadgets and gizmos he had met in this time might surprise him, but they seemed barely to faze him—despite the fact that so much of what Sea'n saw here must seem to him like sheer magic. Jothan remembered the adage Keela quoted, and smiled. This must be exactly what that old guy Clarke had meant.

And, presumably, such ready acceptance was at least part of the reason Sea'n had dared make the hazardous trip back through time. That, and the courage to risk all on his dragon’s rare ability to fly to the unproven destination found in a fardling _picture._

Jothan had comm’d his request right away, making sure Yusuf knew who it must go to. Along with every detail Sea'n could provide, Jothan added a generous transference of credits, which he did not mention to Sea'n. The little dragon carving was already on its way overland to Raoul, who would get it safely to Monaco Bay. Jothan would never actually _forget_ Sea'n’s commission, but who knew what might happen in the meantime? The dragon project was going to keep him pretty busy once Sea'n was safely off home.

He didn’t blame Sea'n for wanting to leave asap, not with so much riding—he managed a wry smile at the pun, if not for its implications—on Sammath being back there, next time Frideth rose to mate. The Weyrs’ brand of Social Darwinism still sounded to him like it came close to ritualized rape, but it was not his place to comment any further than he’d done already. 

It was obvious anyway that Sea'n was head over heels for Elijah, dragons or no, and Jothan would have put credits on the reverse being true. 

However pressing Sea'n’s need for haste, though, Jothan just couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —speed up the process. That always led to negligence, soon or late, and he just wouldn’t risk it. _He_ might never know if slapdash methodology caused the whole endeavor to fail, but Sea'n sure would, one cold and hopeless day of the future. Jothan would be gone to dust and long past caring by then, but it was a matter of pride for him to succeed whether he would know about it or not. He would _not_ let Sea'n’s people down.

He began to seriously worry that the gene therapy he eventually produced would be completely unproven when Sea'n took it back with him. It had to be, of course. There simply was no means of testing in the field, no possibility of clinical trials. He must be certain he was as right as ever he could be—and then some—before he would let Sea'n leave with it. He would never know Sea'n’s people, save through the memories Sea'n shared, but they were relying on him to get it right. To, quite literally, help save their world.

The way his findings were going, he was getting closer to the solution every day. He could already feel the welling elation that said he was very close indeed. He tried to share his expectation with Sea'n on one of his rare visits to the lab—only to find the difference between their cultures confusing the issue once again. The later Pernese seemingly didn’t go in much for figurative speech.

‘I think I’ve gotten your problem pretty well sewn up now—in theory, at least,’ he’d said, intending to reassure Sea'n that his leaving shouldn’t be all that far off.

‘Sewn up?’ Sea'n raised the brow, and grinned. ‘Sewing is what I do to make and mend harness. How others produce clothing and boots—what your elder daughter does here. But it is not what _you_ do. Yet again, Jothan, what you say is not what you mean!’ 

‘Fixed,’ Jothan explained. ‘Sorted—solved!’

‘You know what is wrong and you can put it right?’ Sea'n checked cautiously.

‘You got it! And no, I know you don’t _have_ anything yet. Before I met you, Sea'n, I never realized just how often we say stuff that doesn’t mean exactly what it says, but I’m very glad I did—meet you, that is!’ 

As time went on, it was obvious Jothan was on the right track. All his tentative comparisons and speculative theorizing worked together to prove only one possible solution to this problem. Only one possible source.

He checked the parameters of the ’scope and tapped his keyboard, calling up the given matrix. Another one completely analogous and—he consulted a second screen—yes, it was another Frideth daughter. Sea'n’s emphasis, in defining these three for the database, had been on the fact that none had yet risen to mate, but now, having examined three, Jothan would put money on—where was the fourth so labeled? R…S…T…Toranith—on Toranith being identical where it counted. And so she was.

Only one queen with a rider who was male. Only that one queen fertile, among so many. Only one genetic component that revealed clear difference. All four daughters of that single queen expressing the identical gene alignment, and if he thought Joel would take him up on it, Jothan would put credits on that, too—on their ability to breed as normally as their dam. He would at least get something tangible in return for all this work, then! Not that he begrudged it, for its fascination alone.

Frideth’s immunity presumably came about through her connection to Elijah. Her daughters’ samples said they had inherited a passive maternal immunity, as would theirs, and theirs, and… For the rest—and their offspring in perpetuity—an artificial adaptive immunity must be provided. By Frideth, of course.

But immunity to what? According to Sea'n, the decline on laying rates among the queens had been going on for some time. Was it too far a supposition that the others had all had their DNA corrupted by a series of ongoing events? The ‘coil of coils’ structure was very vulnerable to electro-magnetic interference. Flying close to the sun so much—maybe on those hyper-randy mating flights, maybe just day to day—would subject them to radiation from solar flares.

It was as plausible a theory as any. He was not here to examine causes, however, but to correct effects. One day if—no, _when_ —they had dragons of their own, he’d make a point of looking into that. Would it be possible to prevent it from happening again? But if he did, Sea'n would not have needed to travel back in time and _he_ would never have known there was anything to prevent and… 

Jothan squeezed the bridge of his nose against a incipient headache and gave up on the complexities of time travel. For now, what he needed to worry about was the perfect delivery system.

How many credits for a gene-gun from Stores these days? A heavy duty vet version, no less, since it must penetrate a lot of dragon hide. He’d have liked to send two, to be on the safe side, but such things were not in ready supply even here—the ‘loss’ of one, he might get away with. For two, he stood no chance. Sea'n must wisely use—and guard well—the only one he could bring back with him to his time.

An oxygen tank going astray somewhere amid the labs would likely never be missed, though the connections to a breathing mask were trickier to obtain. An entire spacesuit plus helmet would have been better, of course—because _between_ had felt to Jothan exactly like the void of space, without the benefit of light from distant sun or star. But they were all left aboard the Yokohama as far as he knew, and a request for one would do more than just raise a few eyebrows. 

Anyhow, what Sea'n had given in return was and would continue to be more than worth it. When Project Dragon—Jothan was already beginning to give it capitals in his mind—got off the ground, he’d be earning credits well beyond the end of his assignment here. Maybe even with a raise, in so important an undertaking. Enough to barter for extra labor and give the stake a real flying start when finally he got back to it.

To keep his promise to Sea'n, he could not even upload his data files to the mainframe yet. Especially not the vids of Sea'n flying Sammath, or the harrowing interview he had coaxed from Sea'n on camera. If his matter-of-fact, gut-wrenching account of facing Threadfall and how the people and dragons of his time fought the devastation it brought, year after year for most of their lives—well, if that didn’t convince the Council, nothing would. 

It was unlikely, of course, that anyone would access the files here until after he unveiled them from his personal memory device, in the meeting he already envisaged back at Landing. But Jothan understood the damage an unguarded revelation now might mean for Sea'n, and he would continue to keep the secret, as promised. 

His actions in the future might yet—however sincerely he hoped not—radically alter or even destroy Sea'n’s world before he got back to it. Revealing his visit too soon almost certainly _would._

Afterward, though—just as soon as Sea'n had flown away into his own time—Jothan would be free to reveal everything he knew. With luck, the work he had done already might prove an invaluable contribution to the biggest project any of them could ever hope to work on.

When he came to think about it, the stake may have to take second place for quite some time. He would have to move back to Landing for the duration. The kids, too, of course, though Padraig might want to go it alone at the cove, once he’d qualified. But, it _was_ sort of Padraig’s field too, and likely they would need all the lab-savvy assistants they could muster. Another bridge to cross when they came to it. 

Here and now, he had only a little more tinkering to do to the cultures—the ammo to load the gun, as it were—and he would be done. And if Frideth was so potent a queen, what was the betting she would also be a big step along the way to fixing their own dragonless state in this time? That was definitely the place to start—and soon. The second sample of her ichor was still frozen intact.

Sea'n could have no real understanding of what made this queen so special. He believed her to be the finest queen on Pern simply because she was his dragon’s mate—her rider being Sea'n’s partner and all things to Sea'n. He could not know that his Elijah’s genetic concordance with Frideth—the one instance in centuries to resist previously gender-imperative bonding, said Sea'n—had protected her from whatever had skewed the other queens’ DNA and set them on the precarious path toward sterility. Precarious for Pern, that was. 

His breath caught then, as he realized how bleak Pern’s future—its _future_ future, he amended with a wry grin—would have been had Elijah never Impressed Frideth. Had Sammath never woken Sea'n from sleep with his urgent demand to fly to Telgar. 

Had this pair of riders and their dragons never met and mated…

Should he reveal to Sea'n that Frideth was not only the one immune and currently breeding queen, but also the source of what Jothan was now satisfied must be a totally effective therapy for the rest? Sea'n had told him something of the unpleasantness toward Elijah, simply because his queen was productive when others were not. 

Jothan doubted the weyrwomen—queens cured or no—should ever find out they owed that cure to Elijah and Frideth. Their genetic makeup was otherwise quite stable, and according to Sea'n, they all responded quite normally to the rise in estrogen levels following sex, so their behavior should also return to normal once their queens’ regular laying patterns resumed. 

When it came to giving any of them even the smallest cause for resentment? No—safe was always better than sorry, or it wouldn't have been a cliché for eons past. 

A small complication was that Frideth’s daughters did not need and should not receive that same therapy. Suspicious enough for remark, probably, if they did not. A placebo dose, then, for those four alone—justifiable on the grounds that none of them had yet risen to mate—or, at least, they hadn’t when Sea'n left…

It was excuse enough, but Sea'n must be very careful to supply it to those queens only. Just one mistake, one single queen left afflicted as before, might result in her raging virago of a weyrwoman becoming hell-bent on recrimination—possibly against Sea'n, more likely against Elijah still.

Not so many generations earlier, hereditary transfer of corrections achieved by gene therapy had been thought impossible. Now it was not only possible but quite routine, and many once seriously debilitating—even fatal—genetic disorders had been completely eliminated for decades past, if not a century or two. If only viral infections had ever proved as stable and as accommodating!

Perhaps Keela would take up that challenge in the future—hopefully with more success. She had a lively interest in his work, though as yet she understood little more of it than Sea'n.

Oh. Maybe not. Jothan suddenly remembered that Sea'n’s people _were_ their future—his and that of every member of the Pern expedition. Further advances in genetic manipulation were unlikely.

Keela’s interest had a distinctly personal slant, anyway. As much as she loved having Sea'n here—and Sammath even more—and did not really want either of them to leave, she kind of did. Jothan couldn’t begin Project Dragon until they left, and the sooner he started, the more likely it was that they would have dragons before she was too old to ride one. He knew how much she yearned for a dragon of her own. 

He’d already noticed that when they went out to the cove, she no longer hunted along the beaches for fire-lizard nests. Her long-held determination to stake one out until the crucial moment of hatching had faded completely. Clearly a dragon of one’s own was far more desirable than a mere fire-lizard.

Her realization that it could happen for her was fired when Sea'n told them about his son. Keela had been enthralled by the story of Saben, and Elijah and Sea'n’s surprise discovery of him on Search. Where Jothan could appreciate the discomfiture there must have been that day, Keela heard only the joy of their meeting.

‘Sammath says Saben will Impress one day,’ Sea'n had added, ‘and likely a bronze, too—though that may be Sammath doing my wishful thinking for me!’ 

‘Oh, no! He will—I’m sure he will, if Sammath says so!’ 

More than once, in Jothan’s hearing, Sea'n had compared her lively character with Saben’s. Keela’s own wishful thinking had made the leap from there to Sammath possibly believing _she_ might merit a dragon, too. She could not quite bring herself to ask, however often Jothan saw her teeter on the edge. The disappointment of a denial might be too much for her to bear.

The closest she ever came was one day when Sea'n was visiting the lab and she burst out, ‘I wish I knew when we’ll have dragons of our own, like Sammath. It could take years and _years_ and by that time I might be too old to Impress. I might not even be around to see it at all!’ 

‘We’ll do our best, honey—I can’t promise better than that.’ Jothan was pretty sure it wouldn’t take anywhere near as long as that—he very much doubted it, not given the genetic material they already had to work with—but he could not give her false hope. 

He had reservations about his little girl ever having a dragon of her own anyway, given what Sea'n had told him about mating practices within the Weyrs. If she did Impress, he could only hope to goodness it would be a queen, and her bronze’s rider as good a man as Sea'n.

Maybe he should take a look at her blood in advance—though what he could do if it showed up on the green-rider level, he had no idea, other than insisting she should never be what Sea'n called _put to the egg_. 

Oh sure—that would work well. Not. 

It was probably better not to know until it either happened or it didn’t.

He knew Sea'n had seen his worry on that head and never troubled Keela with a single word about dragon-mating. Jothan himself hadn’t even brought up the subject of contract expectations with her, yet, though biology teach had taken care of the sexual aspects. Hopefully there was still plenty time for both.

‘Jothan?’ Sea'n was definitely looking like a man who was not at all certain he should say what he was going to. He paused a moment, drew a breath and went ahead anyway. 

‘Jothan, from something I have learned while I have been here,’ he said tentatively, ‘I know you _shall_ have dragons here, before too many turns—years—have passed.’ 

Keela cheered and clapped her hands, but Jothan had to ask. ‘You _know_? How do you know? What did—?’ But Sea'n zipped finger and thumb across his mouth, exactly the way Keela herself did for silence or a secret.

Jothan wondered briefly if Sea'n’s people still did that, or whether he had picked it up from her—and if he had, how weird he would seem if he did it when he was back home again.

‘You must forgive me that I cannot tell you more than that,’ Sea'n added. ‘You were the one who said the smallest change could mean I might not have a time of my own to return to. Between us, we have probably caused more changes than enough, already! Even the little I could tell—about the dragons you _shall_ have—might be just that bit too much,’ he ended solemnly.

Jothan nodded. ‘Well, it’s a comfort of sorts—knowing we succeed, I mean, not that we might have—and I really hope we _haven’t_ —done anything that might…you know…’ he trailed off. 

‘If Sammath and I were _meant_ to come here, Jothan, we are _meant_ to return. I believe it more than ever now, having arrived and found you—not only able but willing to help people in a future you can never know. Do not worry for us. Concentrate instead on the great work you must soon begin—for your own time, instead of for mine!’


	42. Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…with no-one to…_ talk _to…and_ especially _at night…_

[](http://www.statcounter.com/) ‘So small a thing?’ Sea'n’s question was not only puzzlement but doubt.

He was ashamed of himself for feeling either, when Jothan had rushed out here—too excited even to wait for Keela to finish her schooling or to drag Ruari from whatever ‘assignment’ was keeping him at home, to come with him—to proudly bring Sea'n what he’d labored over for so many sevendays and was now complete.

The thing was one of many narrow tubes—cartridges, Jothan called them. They lay in neat little rows in the box Jothan was holding out for him to see. Even though Sea'n now knew what to do with such a tube, it still seemed to him very unlikely this could possibly be what he’d risked so much to bring home with him.

‘ _This_ ,’ he said, wholly doubting now, ‘will set right all that is amiss with a queen dragon—bigger even than Sammath?’ 

‘These,’ retorted Jothan, waving his hand over almost the entire box; the gene gun and a much smaller, separate box waited in a second compartment, ‘will set right what is wrong with _most_ of your queen dragons!’ His smile was almost smug.

‘Most, but not all? Some cannot be cured?’ Sea'n struggled between appreciation of all that Jothan had done for him, and disappointment that he had not completely succeeded.

‘No, that’s not what I meant! There’s enough in there for all the affected queens—with a few extra for luck. Slot them into the magazine like I showed you, and just shoot each queen in the neck, the way we practiced on Sammath.’ 

Sea'n grinned at that, and Jothan grinned self-consciously back. He might be well used to using these things on their much smaller local stock, but it had taken a lot of reassurance from Sea'n before Jothan could actually bring himself to demonstrate his gene gun on the bronze, in preparation for their return home. Sammath, of course, had barely noticed what they were about.

‘Not all the queens, though,’ Jothan emphasized. ‘Whatever else, do _not_ give one of those to Frideth, or any of her daughters. They don’t need it, though you may want to keep that quiet. I’d more or less decided not to tell you, just label each with a queen’s name and leave you to it—except you’re smart enough to work it out for yourself. 

‘Sea'n, the primary genetic component—the essential part—of the cure is derived from Frideth’s ichor. Her freedom from the 'Scourge' was the answer to curing all the other queens. She has a natural immunity—which I reckon developed from the way her DNA is connected to Elijah’s, but I could be wrong. I shall look into why, one day when I have time, but that doesn’t really matter right now. Say, was the cycle of solar flares particularly—no, forget it,’ he said when Sea'n raised the brow and shook his head.

‘Anyway, tell Elijah if you like, of course, but—well, you’ll know far better than me, but I think it for the best if no-one else in your time finds out. Resentment’s a funny thing. It can be mean and nasty, whether it’s justified or not.’

Sea'n nodded. ‘We know that already,’ he said, quietly. Elijah had never blamed the weyrwomen for their coldness—and worse—toward him, but he was hurt by it, nonetheless.

‘It helps that Frideth herself clearly doesn’t need anything to make her lay properly,’ said Jothan. ‘Her daughters won’t, either—they already have their cure direct from the source! But, if you think it’ll raise suspicions when they don’t get their dose too, these are placebos.’ He opened the smaller container within the first box to reveal more of the tubes, though they looked no different to Sea'n’s eye. ‘Each is a harmless nothing for the sake of appearances only. You must use them on Frideth daughters _and no-one else_ —that is _most_ important.’

He paused then, and grimaced. Sea'n heard his regret when he added, ‘There’s actually enough in here for a few more. For—for ten more, in fact. We simply don’t know how long may have passed in Frideth’s time while you’ve been here, Sea'n. I put in extras of the real ones too, just in case.’ 

‘Sammath says she has not risen even once—not yet,’ Sea'n said, half belligerent, half pleading. ‘He believes we shall return in time, and so must I.’ 

He could not be angry with Jothan, not really. Not even for implying that Frideth—that _Elijah_ —may have been mated more times than once in his absence. Not when his own belief in Sammath’s conviction could waver so shamefully in the lonely dark of night.

Sea'n knew exactly how many sevendays he had spent here, in unaccustomed chores by way of repayment—waiting and hoping for Jothan’s skills to release him from his enforced stay in the past. He had no idea how many may have passed for Elijah in that time. 

For Sea'n they were finally over. He could not be anything but joyful—relieved that the busywork was done. He and Sammath were free to leave. Free to go home to all that they knew and were a part of—to their weyrmates most of all. 

He grabbed Jothan’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘I cannot repay you as I should—for the time you have given to this, for your help in so many other ways, and for this above all—but you have my deepest thanks, for everything! Your name will truly be honored throughout the Pern from which I come.’

To Sea'n’s surprise, Jothan actually blushed at that. 

‘Hey,’ he said, his reply a quick change of subject, ‘you’re not thinking of rushing off right this minute, surely? You _can’t_ go yet, anyway, not till Keela’s presented you with her Box of Magic Tricks for you to bring home with you!’

The Box of Magic Tricks was all Keela’s idea. Sea'n was not allowed to know what might be in it, though he knew much of the content must be for Elijah and Saben. She had started the Box because, she said, she wanted the two of them—but especially Saben—to know a bit about where Sea'n had lived during his time in the past.

Once or twice, in their home, he glimpsed items that she had whisked suddenly out of sight with a grin or a sly chuckle, and he knew they or things like them were destined for the Box. There were times Jothan would start to mention something that was in it and Keela would cut him off with a look. When the child had a secret, she knew how to keep it—for which Sea'n must be forever grateful.

Now that Jothan had delivered the cure he had worked on so hard and so long, Sea'n had everything he needed for the flight back to his time—maps, mask, breather and all. As eager as he was to be off home, however, Jothan was right. He couldn’t disappoint Keela by leaving without The Box—and certainly not without a proper farewell. 

‘Also, tomorrow is the Restday-eve dance, remember? You skipped the last, but now the work’s all done and you’re off home, you don’t have to worry about people seeing you. I figured we could let our hair down a bit—’ he laughed at Sea'n’s resigned and patently fake sigh, ‘I mean, we can celebrate our victory there, with a few drinks, and a lot of dancing! Okay?’

So Sea'n was ready and waiting, the following day—bathed and carefully dressed in the gather clothes Elijah had insisted he bring along. He closed his eyes, remembering the gathers they had attended together, and the pleasant effect this tunic and trousers always had on his mate—just as Elijah’s had on him in return. And so soon now, he could leave this time and be _with_ Elijah again!

It was perhaps not the best time, he quickly realized, to be thinking of their reunion, when he was waiting for Jothan to collect him. He went outside and peered at the sun, sinking fast toward the horizon already. Jothan had said he—or maybe Keela—would be here in the late afternoon, bringing her precious Box of Magic Tricks, whatever it may contain. 

Yet here it was, evening already and no sign—but before he could begin to worry, Sammath alerted him to the skimmer’s approach. The klaxon burst sounded longer and more insistent than usual, but he put that down to Keela’s excited anticipation of the evening to come. 

To his dismay, however, when the canopy opened it was not Keela that emerged—nor even Ruari, who might bring his own complications but would be welcome nonetheless.

‘I hope you haven’t been waiting _too_ long!’ called an airy voice. ‘There was a mix-up with the skimmers bringing people in. Dad had gotten caught up in something when this one was free, so I hopped right in and said I’d come get you! Keela mentioned the other day that you’re off back home pretty soon with whatever Dad did for you, so I just _couldn’t_ miss this opportunity to get to know you better!’ 

The pilot was Róisín, and she too was attired already for the night’s dancing.

As she came toward Sea'n, her gown swirled with the many shades of sunset, delicately muted to form the perfect accompaniment to bright hair and flawlessly creamy skin. It was almost possible to see right through the shifting swirls, and when she deliberately smoothed her hands down her body, the fabric clung instead of floating. She might as well have been naked, then, for she seemed to wear not a stitch beneath. Her hair was dressed high on her head, a knot of ribbon-threaded ringlets tumbling down to sweep one bare shoulder.

Sea'n realized she was waiting to be complimented on her appearance. For his admiration to be lavishly expressed in word or—and preferably, he suspected—in deed. He could appreciate the effort that had gone into the effect she achieved, and he said so. 

‘Those colors become you well,’ was true, if an obvious disappointment in light of what Róisín clearly considered her due. For a moment she was disconcerted. 

‘Well, _you_ certainly clean up nice!’ she said, in a quick recover. His puzzlement at the expression must have shown, for she added, ‘It’s just a saying—maybe your folks don’t have it? It means looking really good when you dress for an occasion. I work with textiles, you know, so I _always_ notice what people wear—and what you wear is _very_ different! I design clothes—like this,’ she turned slow circles before him, flaunting far more than her dress alone, ‘as well as fabrics and furnishings for all the nearby stakes. I’m _very_ good—ask anybody.’ 

She laughed, warm and low, and it was obvious she had more in mind than her sewing abilities. ‘Even _Keela_ would tell you so! But, I have never, _ever_ seen fabrics or designs quite like yours…’

Setting her hands to the sleeves of his gather tunic, she traced the gradually expanding path of intricate embroidery up to where it flourished wide across his chest and shoulders. Before Sea'n had time to anticipate and withdraw, her fingers were deft on the top fastening, slipping it easily from its loop. 

‘Wow,’ she murmured, slipping a finger almost accidentally under the fabric, _almost_ casually stroking the skin beneath, ‘goldwork embroidery and frog fastenings… You’re practically wearing a lesson from the history of fashion—way, _way_ back! You definitely _aren’t_ from around here, are you?’

‘No,’ said Sea'n, stepping back, ‘I really am not.’ 

To refasten his mother’s lovingly applied handiwork would be to tell this girl how much her actions disturbed him, if not for the reason she intended. He let be, but if he had any say in the matter, she would not again come close enough to touch him—in that or any way at all.

Ignoring the small rebuff, she turned to look around.

‘So, where’s this mysterious ride of yours you have to stay home for so much? I thought it’d be in one of those paddocks when I saw how busy you’ve been out here.’ 

Keela had casually planted in her sister’s mind the idea that Henrik Holstrum did not want Sea'n’s 'ride' on his stake in case of infection, and that the latter might pine away if Sea'n spent much time away from him. She’d told him with a wide grin that he’d be grateful, and he was.

‘No, he is…not exactly easy to pen. We don’t do that, at home.’ 

‘What, these animals just wander around where they want?’

Sea'n just nodded. ‘He will not go far without me.’

‘Well, where is he now, if he needs you so close and all?’ 

‘He likes sand. He is down at the beach.’ 

Both those statements were true of Sammath, if only one applied to the camels of old Earth, whose pictures Keela showed him—moving pictures, so they were _vids_. Sea'n thought them very peculiar-looking animals, even if, as Keela pointed out, the kind with two lumps—no, humps—were very slightly reminiscent of a dragon’s neckridges. He couldn’t imagine sitting between two mounds of _fat_ , though. 

This plan for keeping Sammath a secret from Róisín was all Keela’s.

_‘All she really knows about you is that you’re here because of a problem with your breeding stock, right? So, she’ll think she can get around you by being nice to your ‘ride’. I’ll drop a few hints to make her think Sammath is actually a camel—I know some were brought to Pern for the Tuareg. We have to head her off before she even tries!’_

‘But I really wanted to see him,’ Róisín pouted. ‘Can’t you call him?’

‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. He doesn’t care much for females,’ well, not greens at any rate, ‘and he’ll let you know in the usual way.’

‘The usual way?’

‘No-one has ever told you that camels really do spit at people?’ 

‘They do?’

‘ _Tell it real casual,’ Keela had advised, ‘like it happens all the time. Then add the other stuff we looked up. If there’s one thing Róisín can’t stand, it’s getting messed up!’_

‘Indeed they do. Though, it isn’t actually _spit_ as such—more what’s in the first stomach before they get around to digesting it. I’d have to say it smells a lot worse than just plain spit! Come to think of it,’ he paused as if doing just that, ‘I can actually tell he has had more or less a complete change of diet, coming here. It’s one reason Jothan brings me to the labs by skimmer—I could never ride him there and risk offending people.’

Sammath’s diet had indeed changed—mostly to fish and then back again—but Róisín need never know the truth of that.

Her nose was wrinkling in disgust already. Time for Keela’s _‘clincher’._

‘You would not wish to be caught by it—and especially not in your hair. Keela would tell you that she is in and out of the sea all the time when she visits!’ 

Sea'n didn’t like speaking so many untruths, but Keela assured him that most of the story was merely misdirection, and the few real lies were truly necessary. Róisín would _never_ keep her mouth shut if she once laid eyes on Sammath. 

The ploy worked exactly as Keela had said it would, and Sea'n had to stifle a smile at the revulsion on Róisín’s face as she realized the mess a ride with such revolting habits could make of her carefully calculated appearance. As dressed up for dancing—and seduction—as she was, there was no way she would risk such a fate. She turned her attention instead to the tent Jothan had lent him.

It was very different from the heavy canvas gather tents Sea'n knew. This material was so amazingly thin Sea'n had doubted it would keep out any more of the rain than the fronds of his shelter. Once it proved to be far more efficient, he lost no time in moving most of his belongings into its protection. The heap of furs in particular may be easily dried in the hot sun that followed warm rain, but too long a rain and they started to smell musty. They were better under dry cover, and for more reasons than that. 

Sea'n’s most precious possession here was the portrait of Elijah, kept safe in an inner compartment from the first. It was small comfort to see Elijah at his most beautiful and know him to be so far away, but some comfort nonetheless. 

He had been unable at first, even to touch the drawing. Crisolen warned him that, although treated against fading, the warmth of a single fingertip, if repeated too often, would affect the colors and bleed them one into another. Sea'n could not bear the thought that the clean line of Elijah’s jaw, or the perfection of his mouth may become blurred and lost to him. Whenever he unrolled it from its wher-hide tube, he did so most carefully, and though his fingers hovered, they never quite touched.

Another of Jothan’s new and wonderful materials had come to his aid, less than a sevenday after he first showed the portrait to Jothan and Keela. Jothan came from the skimmer, hands apart as if carrying something, but with nothing there to see. Keela ran forward waving a roll of something that shone silvery, above her head. 

Only when they came close could Sea'n tell Jothan was holding some of the rigid see-through material that was so much like glass, yet not at all fragile and far less heavy. Jothan had brought two flat sheets of it, to lay Elijah’s portrait between. With the edges bound tightly together, the thin plasglas sealed close with the shiny silver tape, Elijah was safe now from damp or damage. 

‘And this is your home from home—may I?’ Róisín didn’t wait for an answer but swept inside the tent on a swirl of color and heavily scented air.

‘So, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, Sea'n? Are you spoken for? Married? Contracted?’ 

She strolled around the central, living section of the tent—studying his belongings, almost absently picking up this and that, her questions seeming quite careless. 

Jothan too had been especially interested in the bonds formed between one rider and another, despite his obvious reservations about the compulsion to mate where their dragons mated. Weyrmating itself, he said, sounded an awful lot like a contract marriage with no clearly defined limit. His interest, though, was entirely different from Róisín’s.

‘We do not use the same words as you, but like you we have more than one form of bond. I think you would say I am contracted. _I_ know that I am mated,’ Sea'n told her. He stood by the entrance still, determined to step no further inside, but then—

Then, without even the semblance of a request for permission, she moved swiftly to rip open the self-close on the inner compartment. She swept aside the light fabric ‘door’ to reveal the heaped furs Sea'n kept there—and the framed portrait of Elijah, propped safely on a folding chair since fixing it to the fabric wall was scarcely practicable.

‘Well, whoever drew that has no real idea of perspective—the fire-lizard is _way_ too big!’ she exclaimed, peering inside. ‘I guess this must be your w—whoa! It’s a guy. Your contract is with a _guy_?’ 

He only nodded in reply. Jothan hadn’t said much, but Keela warned Sea'n that, once Róisín knew about Elijah, she would either be furious over time wasted trying to attract him, or would try an awful lot harder. He could not yet tell which it was to be.

‘What’s his name, then?’ Róisín stretched out a hand and Sea'n quickly placed himself between her and the picture.

‘Please do not touch.’ It was no longer a matter of smudging, with the portrait safe beneath plasglas. Sea'n simply did not want her fingers so close to Elijah.

He had shared the picture with Ruari as explanation—excuse, almost—but he never would with this rapacious green of a girl.

‘He’s very pretty.’ Her voice was patronizing in a way Sea'n could not like, and her hands came up, now he was closer, as if to lie on his chest.

‘No,’ he said firmly, taking her by the wrists and moving her gently but firmly away from both Elijah and himself. ‘Elijah is beautiful, he is my weyrmate, and we shall not discuss him, if you please.’ 

Róisín swept the dangle of curls over that bare white shoulder, and turned almost casually to the heap of furs Sea'n did not keep there for sleeping. 

His hours of sleep were spent curled in the shelter of Sammath’s great bulk, but all too often he would wake with the first hints of dawn, already reaching for Elijah before remembering how far away he truly was. Then he would rise and stumble along the path to where all he had left of Elijah awaited him. 

Even then, he did not touch, for the unyielding surface of plasglas beneath his fingers was as little like his Elijah as the softness of fur spread here, however silky-fine its slide against his skin. The drawing was beautiful, yes, and it gave him focus, but it was no more Elijah than Jothan’s printouts were the places to which Sammath flew him. 

Sea'n’s memories and his need supplied the Elijah he had loved. 

The pose showed him Elijah at rest, of course—a moment of quiet harmony with his queen. But only those memories could conjure his bright liveliness, the timbre of his voice, his generosity to all in need. And his courage—never more needed than in this, in his support for the mission Sea'n had undertaken with no real certainty of success. 

The darkly sweeping strokes of Crisolen’s likeness were simply reminders of Elijah’s hair, slipping soft between Sea'n’s fingers. The rosy tints that limned both lip and cheek were as nothing to the warmth and color he had known and kissed. 

The pale arch of Elijah’s throat, curving up toward Frideth’s massive head, only made him ache to know its creamy smoothness beneath his fingertips once more—soft planes of skin he loved and had loved so often—stretching down and down from there. Past firm shoulders, lean chest and belly, and lower still to what nestled in dark curls. Soft skin over hard need, as eager for his touch as Sea'n for Elijah’s.

Memories aplenty, if too few to truly satisfy him in his long absence—but Sea'n needed Elijah as desperately as always, wanted him so much it was never a hardship here to take himself in hand. Sprawled out on the furs, eyes tight shut and mind focused on the beautiful mate of his remembrance—until action and memory fused to a white heat behind his eyes…to a total and _almost_ satisfying release for his body.

Of late though, his sessions here had been…a little different. Sea'n had felt a warmth at his back—the warmth of one who clutched him tightly from behind through the thrill and stir of Sammath swooping powerfully through the air. 

Hands at his waist, fingers pressing inward, tips sliding low and lower, reaching with pretended stealth for what rose so urgently to meet them. Tendrils of dark hair whipping alongside Sea'n’s face, lips brushing his cheek, breath flowing past his ear with every word, warm and damp.

_‘You want I should keep_ my _hands to myself now, bronze-rider?’_

The answer was no. Sea'n had never wanted that and never would—given both time and place. But the question, husky and low, served always to whet Sea'n’s need all the faster toward the point of no return.

He blinked, for the voice he heard now had no place in here. 

Róisín had folded down onto those same furs and her avid _‘Mmmm!’_ betrayed far more than mere appreciation of their softness. The bile rose in Sea'n’s throat for how she could make a simple sound quite so indecent, set against the honesty of his memories. And she clearly had every intention of settling herself there—and more, if not prevented. 

It was retreat—escape even, and he knew it—when he moved rapidly out into the tent’s central section. He knew it but could not remain there with her, not in the place that held every good memory he’d ever had of his life with Elijah. 

‘We should go,’ he said firmly. ‘Jothan and Keela are expecting me.’ 

‘But it would be so _fascinating_ —’ she drew out the word, almost as caressingly as she stroked the furs, which she then patted for invitation, ‘—to hear what your home life is like, when it must be so _very_ different from mine.’ 

Sea'n did not reply but went to stand by the outer door, clearly waiting to close the tent up behind them as they left. He could almost see the moment she realized, first that he had no intention of joining her there, and then that, furs or no, it really was not worth getting either gown or hair disarrayed quite so early in the evening. 

Róisín rose with a half-pout that was as much a sidelong promise of ‘ _Later!_ ’ and followed him out toward the skimmer. Sea'n doubted she could ever believe herself truly rejected. 

He was unsurprised when she made a show of easing slowly and elegantly into the pilot’s seat, the fabric of her dress drifting to settle—almost with intent—over her most feminine curves. Having strapped himself in, he politely handed her the nearer end of the safety web, and folded his arms across his chest.

She set the skimmer in motion then, and sent it soaring showily in more or less the right direction. Tonight, she was the embodiment of proddy green and rider too—colors brightly shining for an incipient mating flight, flaunting self and dragon in the passionate pursuit of a much-desired rider. 

She had an irritating habit of tapping long fingernails along the steering yoke, he noticed. 

‘Have you always liked guys, Sea'n?’

The question surprised him into revealing more than he meant to. ‘No,’ he said with complete honesty. ‘For me, there has only ever been Elijah.’ _Though perhaps, were I unable ever to return…_ his conscience added ruefully.

‘How long have you been together?’

‘Almost four turns, now.’ _Plus the hundreds you could never understand!_

‘Turns? You mean years? What funny words you use—goes with your accent, I guess! Well, four’s not so long, really. And before Elijah…?’

‘Before Elijah, there was Crista—for more than seven turns,’ he added, because he knew she would ask.

‘So you do like women!’ she cried, almost smugly.

‘I have mated women in the past—I have a son, whom I love very much. But Elijah and I have a bond you cannot begin to imagine, and I am his mate, now and always.’

‘There’s another one of your weird words! Still, you must be awfully lonely, out here all on your own. With no-one to… _talk to_ …and _especially_ at night…’ She glanced sideways at him through the shadowing veil of her lashes.

When Elijah looked at him that way, it never failed to get Sea'n aroused, which was sometimes a bit inconvenient, though mostly the sign of an extremely enjoyable encounter shortly to come. 

From this girl it was simply embarrassing to see her waste so much effort on him, for not a single twitch disturbed him now.

‘I do not lack for company,’ he said repressively. ‘Jothan and Keela—and Ruari, of late—are most generous with their time.’

‘Lonely for _Elijah_ , I meant.’ A slow shift of her hips made that meaning more than clear. 

‘I miss Elijah more than you can ever know. But I am his mate, and there is no-one who could take his place. _Ever_ ,’ he added with a finality he hoped she heard.


	43. Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Scourge takes hold, the Weyrs—and Pern—face a terrible future. Sea'n makes a discovery he believes may offer a solution, but at the risk of everything he knows and loves—including Elijah
> 
> **Beta** : the ever-accomplished, ever-wonderful ♥Notabluemaia♥

_…he likely has magic in those hands—and maybe_ other _places, too…_

She was not giving up _that_ easily. Oh no.

When Róisín O’Brien wanted something—or some _one_ —she got it. Him. 

Not that she would want this stranger for very long, of course. He was not exactly contract material, living way out no place, and likely without a mod con to speak of. 

But he was interesting, in ways the young guys at the three stakes just… _weren’t_. And for some reason, most of the older men she met looked at her askance, not responding at all to her friendlier advances. Either that, or they were so busy being contracted, they avoided her altogether. 

She shrugged—their loss.

This guy, though, Sea'n…he was sort of mysterious, turning up out of nowhere like he did, and he was different. Spoke different, dressed different, _looked_ different, somehow. Something about the way he held himself—maybe that was it? He was so very self-contained. Confident enough to live alone in the middle of nowhere—well, alone except for some hideous beast that might spit stomach acid at him any minute.

And was it being one of the travelers that stopped him giving off the same, boring Good-Little-Stake-Holder vibe even her dad had fallen prey to? Sea'n was far more independent than that. Sure, he had been laying out boundaries and such at Dad’s new place, but he wasn’t…he didn’t seem _invested_ in it. Not the way most guys were these days, just as soon as they stepped out into the Wide Open Spaces. You could practically hear the words—plus caps—in their minds. 

For Sea'n it was just a way to pass the time while he waited, she guessed, and maybe in return for the help. He was perfectly competent at it—set acreage, straight lines, precise corners, whatever, so Dad said—but he clearly didn’t feel the need to maunder on—and _on_ —about it when he was done. 

Definitely her kind of guy, if only he would turn those fascinating eyes her way. And those broad, capable hands… She noticed hands as much as clothes, and his were callused in all the right places—just enough that your most delicate skin would get the full benefit of the hard-soft switch. She had watched the way Sea'n touched and held things, too. Careful—respectful, even…just the _thought_ of what that touch might do distracted her for a moment, there. 

And if that Crista woman had kept him by her for seven whole _years_ , he likely has magic in those hands, and maybe other _places, too…_

With a touch like that—and a partner who looked like that, even if it _was_ a guy—she would bet Sea'n was used to a very active life in the bedroom. If his folks even _had_ bedrooms. And he must be missing—who was it? Eli or something? 

It was a fact that self-pleasure was only good for so long before you started to need the warmth of another body against yours. The slide of sweat between the two of you, their breath damp against your neck—and those helpless sounds they always made, right at the end, that left you free to take what more you needed. 

That great pile of furs, back there? She was not stupid. She knew what they were there for, with that picture so handy and all. _Real_ furs, too, and where in all the hells of seventeen worlds had he gotten those? Would’ve made a real nice bed for the two of them—sliding smooth and silky-soft over her bare skin—if Sea'n had not been in such an all-fired hurry to get to the fardling dance. 

Then again, if she had gotten mussed already, so early in the evening, she wouldn’t be presentable for that all-important first appearance on the dance floor. She would not then draw the envious stares she and her dress deserved—a moment she had been looking forward to since the design first unfolded itself in her mind. Definitely better to enjoy that first. 

Sea'n and his fabulous furs would keep till later.

According to Keela, Dad had been working on the livestock thing for him for a while so, yes, Sea'n had had plenty time to be really, _really_ missing whosit by now. He just refused to admit it for some reason. To admit that his body had needs even when dear, _contracted_ Eli was not around. Not to worry—there were ways. 

She wouldn’t mind betting that if the traveling folk had even gotten around to distilling at all, the stuff they bottled would be harsh—too easily recognizable as spirit, and less than truly palatable. At Landing, now, they’d practically gotten the process down to an art, and that one visiting guy—what was his name, again?—had given her a whole bottle as a parting gift, when his installation here was complete.

The liquor tasted pleasant—smooth, almost innocuous—but it packed one hell of a punch in each small measure. With a judiciously dispensed mixer of fruit juice, it went down as easily as the sodas she barely remembered, back on Earth. Just the thing for a guy all hot from dancing. It had worked fine for her before today. 

And on someone unused to refined spirit…

Not too much, though. She wanted his inhibitions relaxed, not his body. Mellow, not physically incapable!

‘Jothan tells me I shall not be the only newcomer, tonight.’ Sea'n’s remark interrupted her thoughts.

‘What? Oh, yeah. Sled-loads of geeky botanists arrived this week. All wrapped up in grass-seed and what not,’ she said indifferently. ‘None of them worth—I mean, you probably wouldn’t find them very interesting.’ 

She whiled away the rest of the flight with her opinion of anti-social, self-absorbed geeks who were completely incapable of discussing anything beyond their fixation with Pern’s endlessly boring vegetation.

The bright cluster of lights guided her in to land, squeezed as close to the dance square as she could find space. Sea'n didn’t comment on the slight bump, so she could hope he hadn’t noticed it—another scrape or two on a skimmer wouldn’t matter that much, anyway. 

People with instruments were up on the raised dais already, making the hideous noises that always seemed to start off an evening’s dancing. Why’d they always do the tuning stuff where _normal_ people had to hear? The usual colored lanterns dangled in strings between the lamp standards, the row of tables was as generously laden with food as always—one of them with a convenient display of pitchers, bottles and glasses.

She had briefly considered opening the dancing with Sea'n—he really did clean up nice—but no sooner had the skimmer landed than Armand Duquesne and Keela arrived from opposite directions. On swift reflection, it was far more politic to make her entrance on the arm of a major holder’s son than with some passing stranger nobody knew. She would have Sea'n soon enough— _oh, yes_ —but Armand would be here long after Sea'n had vanished back out into the wilds to his pretty boy—and Armand would inherit control of his father’s extensive holding one day.

The evening proved every bit as enjoyable as she expected it to be. Her dress caused all the right reactions—the fuddy-duddies were satisfyingly shocked, the girls _totally_ envious and the boys most pleasurably attentive. More than one of her usual court tried to lure her away from the lighted area for a little private ‘dancing’ in one of the many dark nooks to be found for those who required them. 

Satisfactory, yes, but it was Sea'n she had her sights on tonight, and from the look of it she might need to keep her focus there. Annoyingly, those dreary botanists had proved her wrong, seeming almost to adopt Sea'n as one of their own. Fellow outsiders together, she supposed, but he was _her_ outsider, dammit!

After an early dance with him, she was busy for a while satisfying the clamor of her resident admirers. He was equally well-occupied, however, and did not lack a partner for a single dance, though she saw him being coached through some of the steps before he caught on and could really join in. 

His face lit with that distracting smile when he returned the favor and shared one his folks’ dances. The band found music to suit, Sea'n gave a quick demonstration of the steps—not much touching, lots of stamps and claps and cross-hands twirling, with partners changed by rote. Fast as heck and no quarter given to laggards. Róisín made sure to drag Luis Ciotti in by the hand, so any laughter would be at his expense, but even she had to admit it was fun—and she got to feel those delicious calluses several times, distractions in themselves.

In the interval for breath that followed, Sea'n had to have the grins and sniggers explained when he mentioned a faster one still. The Toss dance, he said blandly, was more dangerous than they knew, and needed much practice if the lighter partner were not to tumble to the floor. She’d really have liked to know what their slow dances might be like but Sea'n kept those to himself.

Later, she noticed Keela making an equally boisterous romp of an old Irish jig with him. Eventually, though, she and the other young teens were packed off to bed, which left Sea'n without his most rigorous self-appointed guardian. Ruari was still around somewhere, she supposed, but he really did not count—unless he was hoping for a dance with Sea'n, too.

She had watched her twin as Sea'n first walked into the flare of lights around the dancing square. She saw Ruari’s eyes widen and his mouth drop open at sight of him, resplendent in that exquisitely made, incredibly different finery. At the way the color enhanced the green of his eyes, the glittering gold embroidery sparking highlights there as it shimmered with every shift of strong shoulders. 

She smirked. Well, that settled that question. Whatever tripped his trigger, she supposed, but he’d better not get in _her_ way.

Good thing she had managed to snitch the only available skimmer right from under his nose when he let slip he intended to go collect Sea'n. Was that why her poor dear brother had not danced all evening and was skulking in the shadows here—because _she_ had won Sea'n and he knew it?

Dad had been keeping an eye on Sea'n, too, but now Róisín caught sight of him—her own _father_!—making up to that Metcalfe woman, who was so plain she couldn’t get herself contracted even once, in all the time since they landed on Pern. Really, it was disgusting the way old people still thought sex was for them. She had seen them sneaking off—presumably toward Lami’s quarters—and returning, some time later, beaming like Romeo and frigging Juliet, and dancing closer than ever. 

As the night wore on, Róisín contrived to be close by the drinks table as often as Sea'n was there, offering ‘her’ guest various fruit juices after his exertions. The beaded purse might hold only a smallish bottle, but experience said it should be plenty. Turned out, she was both impressed and dismayed by his ability to hold his liquor. 

Maybe she was wrong about the traveling folk as distillers? And maybe not, for when the tempo of the dancing slowed, his face turned kind of dreamy and he sat out the rest. It was obvious his mind was elsewhere—with that guy of his, she’d bet on it. No matter—once she got her hands on him he wouldn’t have a thought in his head but Róisín O'Brien and what those hands were doing!

Suddenly and without warning, he got to his feet, bid an obvious good night to the botanists as a group, and crossed to where Dad and the Metcalfe were practically making out on the dance floor.

Róisín immediately maneuvered the sad oaf of a Marin kid—to whom she had inexplicably granted one dance and who did not even know how to _lead_ —toward them. Too late to hear what was said, unfortunately, but whatever it was, Sea'n seemed pretty adamant that the pair should keep on dancing, though Dad also seemed insistent about something—that he should stay the night, maybe? 

Regrettably, for she knew exactly where the guest quarters were, Sea'n shook his head, grinned widely at them both—Metcalfe actually blushed like a fricking _teen_ —and seemed to melt away into shadow between the two closest buildings.

She blinked. That was not in the plan at all. 

Ditching the kid as soon as she could without attracting currently unwanted attention from any of her other admirers, she set off after Sea'n. Where the frag did he think he was going? He could not skimmer back to the cove without a pilot—totally the wrong direction for that, anyway. He was not looking for her to fly him, and had all but ordered Dad and Lami to carry on as they were, so how—

Oh. Had he and Dad somehow parked the acid-spitting ride in one of the outlying fields earlier, so Sea'n could go back to the cove in his own time? 

All that way—in the dark? And before she’d had her chance with him?

No way. No fragging _way_ was he sneaking off home when she wanted him so bad!

Róisín followed him through the network of housing units, wondering if she might snatch a kiss in the shadows before he took her wherever he was headed. She sped up, but suddenly there were voices ahead. Well, she and Sea'n couldn’t be the only ones looking for a cuddle—or more—in the dark. Who…? She edged closer, peeping round the corner of the nearest home. 

Dammit, that was Sea'n over there, and it wasn’t a girl with him either—it was Ruari. Where’d he spring from? And did he really think he’d get Sea'n and she wouldn’t?

She had suspected her brother of liking guys before tonight. He’d never come out and admitted it, though, and more than once she had charmed away a good looking guy who maybe showed more interest in him than her. It was easy when you knew how—bright and fun-loving beat out shy snail any day. 

People who talked about twins being so close _—best friends, even_ —and all that garbage, had clearly never had one foisted on them. They had nothing in common. She didn’t even _look_ like Ruari—thank the frag for that—but he got on her last nerve like no-one else ever. He was just so…he was always _there_ —he always had been. Clinging to her when they were little, as if she’d ever want him for a friend just because he hadn’t any of his own. Showing her up once they were grown, with his smarts and his goody-goody ways, his butter-wouldn’t-melt vibe and just—oh, everything.

And here he was again—with Sea'n. 

What did he think he was doing, trying to steal _her_ conquest for the night? At the dance, the best he could do was lurk in shadow between the lights, his eyes fixed on Sea'n and practically radiating hearts and sparkles. He had definitely not gotten to dance with him like she knew he wanted, but she could tell from the pitch of his voice that this meeting had a lot more to do with romance than mere conversation—on her brother’s side, at least.

She crept closer.

‘You’re leaving, I know you are,’ Ruari was saying, ‘and without even saying a proper goodbye. I thought we were friends, even if you didn’t want anything more from me!’

‘Of course we are friends, Ruari—but I assumed you would come out with Jothan and Keela tomorrow, to say goodbye. They are bringing the mysterious Magic Box for me to bring home.’ There was a smile in Sea'n’s voice.

‘I know,’ said Ruari. ‘I made sure she put a picture of me in there—just one, so you won’t completely forget who I am. Who I _was_.’ 

Róisín frowned. Why hadn’t she known about this box? Sea'n should have _her_ picture in there, not Ruari’s. Tomorrow, she’d make sure of it—and wouldn’t _that_ give what’s his name at home something to think about!

‘But, out at the cove, with them—that’s not the kind of goodbye I want, Sea'n, when I’m never going to see you again. I thought—I hoped you might spare me just one of your Elijah’s kisses. I’m sure you’ll have plenty left for him.’ 

Stupid idiot didn’t even have the cojones to sound annoyed at coming second to the pretty boy whose picture she had seen propped up in that tent for very obvious reasons—just sad and more than a bit pathetic. He needed to man up or he was never going to get himself a guy.

‘Ruari, I told you—’

‘I know what you told me. I am not trying to take anything from Elijah. I just want to show you how much I could have cared if you were staying here—or if he wasn’t waiting for you there.’

‘I don’t think—’

‘Just one kiss, Sea'n, for goodbye?’

How useless could her brother get, _whining_ to be kissed? Róisín could show him—not that she ever would—exactly how to get a man to kiss you. Whether he wanted to or not. As she fully intended to do with Sea'n, once Ruari was out the way.

Someone in a nearby home switched on a light just then. Enough of it spilled toward the unintended tryst—unintended on Sea'n’s part, anyway—to show their two figures standing close. Ruari, tipping his head for Sea'n’s kiss—not just a peck at parting, either, she could tell—and the restless gleam of gold along Sea'n’s arms as he held Ruari for the long minute it lasted.

Tongues, she was sure of it! Ha! She _knew_ he must be missing his boy something fierce. Wait till _she_ got a hold of him—he would forget the two of them in a hot minute!

‘Enough,’ Sea'n said, and put Ruari from him, hands gentle on his shoulders. ‘I shall not forget you, Ruari, you may be sure of it—but you should go now.’

Ruari did not answer, only turned and shuffled off obediently homeward, head down. Huh—quitter! Róisín would have bet her best dress—well, no, maybe her _second_ best—that he was crying, the candy-assed wimp. 

Sea'n set off walking again, out into the fields. Well, he ought to be well and truly primed for the taking, after that little encounter—clearly his only reason for kissing Ruari at all—and on _her_ liquor, too!

Also, strappy shoes were seriously not meant for tracking across fields in the dark. At least, thank all the powers that be, there was no stock in this one—not even the ride, from what she could see—or who knew _what_ she might have trod in? No two ways—the guy _owed_ her.

It was pretty dark out here for walking _any_ where, but she was determined to get what she wanted from him. She was taken by surprise, though, when he stopped. Just stopped, right in the middle of a completely empty field. He was clearly waiting for something…or some _one_ …

Of course—he was waiting for _her_! Had to be—he just hadn’t let on that he knew she was there. He was playing along. maybe he’d even known she was watching when he kissed her brother, and was just adding spice to what was to come. Now, _that_ she could _really_ go for!

Dangling the uncooperative shoes from one hand, she did her best to glide forward on tiptoes. Was it being a traveler that he couldn’t have picked a more user-friendly spot? One with a pile of hay or something if he couldn’t arrange for a decent bed. Maybe he had stashed a blanket?

Well, the grass was pretty thick, and the evening more than warm enough to enjoy getting naked—and all that went with it. This would be fun whichever way—she would make sure of it. Silently, she crept up behind Sea'n and slid her hands over his eyes. ‘Guess who?’ she breathed into his ear.

‘Róisín.’ He did not sound surprised. Or as pleased as he ought.

With her most alluring pout she moved to face him. ‘You could have pretended, Sea'n!’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a game—although…’ she made to stroke her fingers along those trails of exquisite embroidery, ‘there are _better_ games we can play…’

Sea'n stepped back out of reach. ‘For you, of course there are—and others with whom to play them. You well deserve your many admirers, Róisín, but I shall never be one of them.’

‘Why not? You like women too—you told me you do!’

‘And I told you also that I am mated already.’

‘That didn’t stop you kissing Ruari!’

‘Ruari is a confused boy who is not yet entirely certain what he wants. I would have hurt him more by refusing. You, Róisín, are anything but confused about your desires.’ 

‘Well, neither of them is here right now, Sea'n—but _I_ am…’

For some reason, Sea'n grinned, starlight glinting on strong white teeth. ‘I have heard that before—in fact, you probably would not believe just how much experience I have in declining such _tempting_ offers!’

‘You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?’ she snapped crossly, not meaning to sound so sharp but—hell, this guy had a nerve to think he could reject her, and the way he said it hadn’t mean tempting at all.

‘No, for it is the truth, I assure you!’ Sea'n said, and he was laughing now. He was making fun—of _her_!

She stamped one foot and discovered that even a thick cover of grass was not enough to protect you from underlying stones when you did it in bare feet. ‘Oww!’ She sat down cautiously, one lithe leg bent in his direction, dress rucked purposely high. The sore spot wasn’t actually bleeding, no thanks to _him_. But, perhaps now…

‘I hurt myself,’ she said, making her voice small and sad—but the kind of sad guaranteed to bring out a guy’s hero instincts, not Ruari’s pitiful whine. ‘Look, Sea'n!’ 

All she needed was for him to kneel by her, his fingers as clever and gentle on her injury as she just knew they would be. He couldn’t get away as easily then, and once she really got her hands—and mouth—on him, he wouldn’t _want_ to escape. 

She looked up, biting her lip to prove her bravery in affliction, only to find that Sea'n had moved on while she was distracted. He was almost to the far side of the field already, fraggit! 

Well, she was not going a step further without shoes, not with her foot hurting like this. She might step on another sharp stone, and then how would she _ever_ catch up with him, wherever he was going so fast? 

She began to strap on the second shoe then shivered in her layers of sheer fabric as grass and dress alike rippled to a whoosh of wickedly cold air that dropped suddenly from nowhere. She looked up but the stars above her shone the same as ever, no storm cloud shielding them from view. 

Over toward Sea'n, though…over there was only a spreading darkness, high and wide across the place where he had been. A faint sheen under starlight showed her snatches of detail that seemed to make no sense at all—a spike, a ridge, a sweeping curve, in no order she could make out at all. 

She blinked and caught a brief glimpse of color, a whirl of bright and angry red amid the all-encompassing black. Another whoosh of wind—without the biting cold this time—and the darkness leapt up from the ground, spreading side to side and ever closer until it deleted every one of those myriad stars from sight. Róisín whimpered, rolling to hide her face in the grass, arms about her head for protection.

When she dared look up at last, the sky of stars was once more comfortingly in its place above her.

Whatever she had seen was gone—and so was Sea'n, history-of-fashion finery and all.

Róisín whimpered again, and reached in her purse for the half-empty bottle.[](http://www.statcounter.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1**. To satisfy my own internal logic and for reasons that readers of _Dragonsdawn_ may guess and will soon understand, I needed to bring together all Pern’s botanists but one 
> 
> **2**. As a point of interest, where _did_ they get all those sleeping furs, if there were no large fur-bearing animals on northern Pern?? Sewn together rabbit skins just don’t fit in my imagination (especially with Piemur _pounding_ them in a washtub after the hazing incident in _Dragondrums_ )
> 
> **3**. Admirers of Gimli are free to imagine the Toss dance joke was inserted just for them (see _Runner of Pern_ )


End file.
